


I Don't Compromise And I Don't Pretend (Most Of The Time)

by nerdwegian



Series: You Make My Heart Beat Faster [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental friendship, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bodyguard, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Ice Cream, Kid Fic, Lies, M/M, Misunderstandings, Parent Clint Barton, Pheels, Phil Coulson & Tony Stark Friendship, Pining, Post-Iron Man 1, Post-Movie(s), Secrets, Tony Feels, Trust Issues, Unsafe Sex, actual warnings though, child endangerment, marvel bang 2013, offscreen death of canon character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Tony Stark declares himself Iron Man on national TV and refuses to join the Avengers Initiative, Nick Fury assigns Agent Phil Coulson to be his temporary bodyguard, and also convince Stark that joining forces with SHIELD would be in his best interest. After that, things rapidly pile up for Phil: Stark builds an ice cream truck (because of REASONS!) and becomes accidental bros with Phil, Agents Sitwell and Romanoff are far too nosy for their own good, and bad guys keep trying to steal the Iron Man suit! In the middle of it all, Phil meets a single dad with an affinity for archery, who may or may not know more about SHIELD than he lets on...</p><p>Written for Marvel Bang 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, you should all go check out the wonderful fanmix created by [sperrywink](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sperrywink) for this story! [You can find it right here!](http://sperrywink.dreamwidth.org/255049.html)
> 
> Massive thanks to my betas, [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/), [torakowalski](http://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski) and [zolac_no_miko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zolac_no_miko)! They also helped me with the title and a summary that actually makes sense, and I love them a whole lot! Any potential mistakes left are mine, and mine alone.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who contributed ice cream suggestions, and to Anna for the medical help.
> 
> And finally, thank you to the entirety of my twitter feed for putting up with all the capslocking and spamming and crying I did about this story. And also, sorry. XD
> 
> This story does not contain any major, common triggers, but you can jump to the End Notes for detailed warnings if you want.

"I am Iron Man," says Tony Stark on the TV.

The press goes nuts. Pepper Potts gasps. Colonel Rhodes frowns and carefully hides his face behind his palm. In the room where they've set up surveillance, Jasper's jaw drops.

Phil Coulson says, "Excuse me," walks out of the room, down the hall and into the stairway. Once there, he stops on the landing, takes a deep breath, and then counts backwards from twenty, eyes squeezed shut and hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Shit. Fuck." Then after a beat, "Son of a mother freakin'--"

In his pocket, Phil's phone starts buzzing insistently. When he pulls it out, the display reads Director Fury.

It's shaping up to be an awesome day.

*

 

Nick Fury goes to talk to Stark in person.

Stark laughs him out of his Malibu mansion.

To say that Nick is pissed is like saying water's a little wet. Phil tries to slink down in his seat a little in an uncharacteristic slouch, a bid to make himself smaller and non-threatening, as Nick paces in front of him and yells.

"--the most boneheaded, reckless, shortsighted, moronic fucking genius I've ever--" Nick rants.

Phil stares at nothing and thinks of the potential the Iron Man armor holds.

"--might as well have painted a fucking target on his forehead--"

It's a damn shame Stark wouldn't listen to Nick when he presented the Avengers Initiative, because the Iron Man armor is unquestionably one of the coolest things Phil's ever seen--not that he'd ever admit that to Stark. The man doesn't need any further stroking of his ego.

"--wasting time and resources on his spoiled ass, and it's not like I don't already have enough shit on my plate--"

Nick's words register with Phil and he blinks himself out of his thoughts. "Wait, what?"

Nick gives Phil a glare he hasn't seen in years. "There's no way I believe that you weren't actually fucking listening to every word I just said."

Phil's brain does a quick rewind over Nick's words, and he frowns. "Are you giving Stark a bodyguard detail?"

"Knew you were listening," Nick grumbles, before sitting down in his massive office chair. Phil's jealous of it. A little bit. "Yes. Indefinitely, until further notice, even. I don't really want to, but I have to. Best case scenario, a couple of amateurs try their luck. _Worst_ case scenario, every lowlife scumbag in the _world_ is gonna come for him and his goddamn suit, and as competent as he is in that thing, he can't always be in it. Hell, you've seen the tapes. The song and dance it takes just to _get in it_ necessitates a bodyguard detail. The technology is too valuable to let it go, and I'd still like it for the Avengers Initiative--with or without Stark at the helm."

"I thought he already had a bodyguard?" Phil asks, and Nick scoffs.

"You vetted Hogan. He's a good guy, but would you trust the Iron Man suit with him?"

Phil nods; he can certainly see the point. "Not solo." Bodyguard detail is not a service SHIELD normally provides--but then again, they've never had anyone with a weapon like Stark's suit before. "Who's getting stuck babysitting?" he asks, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows. "No, wait, no--"

A wide, shit-eating grin spreads across Nick's face, the first Phil has seen in days. "Make Jasper do it," Phil says, refusing to let desperation creep into his voice, because Nick's just enough of a bastard it'd just amuse him further.

"A Level Five? Please."

"Exactly! You need me here, Marcus," Phil tries, even though he knows it's a low blow. Even though he knows it's not even true--Nick doesn't really _need_ him for a damn thing, and they both know it.

Nick, of course, sees right through him. "Nice try," he says, chuckling. "I've already cleared your arrival with Stark. Get your ass on a plane to Malibu. Yesterday. You make it there by tomorrow morning, I might consider giving you Sitwell as a second."

For a moment, Phil considers telling Nick where to stick it. He enjoys his work at HQ, and babysitting Stark isn't his idea of a fun time--but on the other hand, this is for the good of the Avengers Initiative, and Phil fucking _loves_ the Avengers Initiative. He thinks if they can get past the bureaucracy of the World Security Council, it could be the single greatest thing SHIELD has ever done, and Stark's suit would be a tremendous asset to that team.

Getting to his feet, Phil buttons his suit jacket and heads for the door. "You owe me."

Nick just shakes his head and grins back at him, nasty and knowing. "Add it to the list, Cheese. Add it to the list."

*

To his surprise, Stark meets him at the airport in person, looking expensively rumpled and casually ignoring the paparazzi and reporters surrounding him. Happy Hogan is nowhere in sight. When he sees Phil and Phil frowns at him, Stark just grins from behind his reflective sunglasses.

"You know, Mr. Stark, this is the sort of thing you probably shouldn't be doing anymore, and certainly not alone," Phil says into Stark's ear over the sound of clamoring paparazzi, neatly dodging Stark's attempts at throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"What?" Stark asks, "I'm just picking up the new babysitter, I'm allowed to, it's a free country."

"Mr. Stark!" a reporter cries, "Do you have illegitimate children?"

"I don't know, who'd your wife say was the father?" Stark responds, and a few others titter around them.

"Tony!" another one cries, "Tony, did Obadiah Stane really die in a plane crash, or did you kill him that night? Was he the Iron Monger?"

Stark's lips tighten and Phil makes a mental note to talk to him about that--it's a small change, but it's still like a neon sign that they've struck a nerve. Sure enough, the same guy immediately presses on. "Did you kill him? Did you kill the man that was like a second father to you?"

Stark shoves through the crowd with no further comments, and Phil thinks about everything he knows about Howard Stark--thinks that a second father doesn't even begin to describe what Obadiah Stane was to Stark. Following Stark, he hunches up his shoulders, shielding him as much as possible from the blitzing of flashbulbs.

Once they're in Stark's car he pulls down his sunglasses enough that he can peer at Phil over the rim.

"Fury knows I'm still not joining his super secret boy band, right?"

Phil considers his words carefully; he knows that his presence here is not really welcome, just tolerated--and barely so, at that--and he doesn't want to spook Stark away. But on the other hand, he can't help feeling like there's been enough people lying to Stark lately. He doesn't want to join their ranks. "You might not be," he says, "but you still have a lot to offer, Mr. Stark--both to us and the world in general."

Stark doesn't respond, the tightness around his lips that never quite left getting more prominent.

He hasn't seen a therapist since Afghanistan, Phil knows--but he thinks idly that Stark really should have.

"It's not like anyone's coming for me, anyway," Stark says with a dismissive gesture, weaving through traffic in a way that might have been unsettling to anyone who wasn't Phil Coulson.

There's no way Stark really believes that. He's far too smart. Phil mentally goes through the list of potential threats. Garden variety small time criminals, suicide bomber nut jobs, US military forces, US government, foreign military forces, foreign governments--hell, maybe even supervillains.

Phil doesn't care what Nick says about his excessive interest in Captain America, he still maintains that the Red Skull had something supernatural juicing his engine. And if supervillains have the potential to exist--if they exist--then they'll surely be coming for Iron Man, who could potentially be the first superhero the world's seen since the Captain himself.

"Besides," Stark continues, "even if anyone's coming--and that's a big _if_ \--I can handle myself, Agent."

Phil smiles blandly at him and doesn't share his theories regarding supervillains. "I'm sure you can, Mr. Stark, but I have my orders."

Stark grumbles at him, but doesn't object further, instead launching into a rant about copyright and patent law, and the weapons developed under his old military contracts.

*

Stark puts him up in a room in his mansion which frankly is about twice the size of Phil's entire Brooklyn apartment, with its own en-suite bathroom. Phil balks a little. He won't be spending a lot of time there, but it's the principle of the matter. Stark just waves his hand blithely in the air and makes a _pssht_ sound. "I wasn't using it."

Phil frowns a little. "Was this room even here a month ago? I've seen your floor plans, I thought this was a dining area?"

But Stark's attention is already elsewhere. "I've set you up with access to JARVIS and most of his functions and protocols, except for what's on a few private servers, of course. All Stark Industries tech is on the private servers, because it is my company, and I don't like sharing. The workshop is always off limits, and if Dread Pirate Fury has an issue with that, he can suck my nut."

Ah, yes, pirate jokes, Phil thinks. Nick loves those. Always so original.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat. "Mr. Stark, as you're already aware, I've been assigned as the primary agent on your security detail. SHIELD has deemed your self-sufficiency in the Iron Man suit of armor to be acceptable--"

"Very generous, I'm sure," Stark mutters, predictably interrupting, but Phil continues talking over him.

"--so when you are piloting the suit, you are free to come and go as you please--with the provision that you actually _stay in the suit_. For the rest of the time, I'll be on duty your every waking moment, and a few of the non-waking ones--"

"Really? You don't even do shift rotations?"

"If something is preventing me from doing my duty for whatever reason or if I'm otherwise in need of a reprieve, Mr. Hogan can be called on for solo duty in certain situations, or we have a secondary on standby. There are tactical teams available with near-global response times of less than 30 minutes, less than 10 for most of the continental United States, that are prepared to intervene, should I deem it necessary. I will not be replacing your current bodyguard, Mr. Hogan, but will be working alongside him to ensure your safety. Unlike Mr. Hogan, I will not be driving you anywhere--"

"Good, I prefer driving myself."

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement--"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Stark interrupts again, explosively this time. "SHIELD, man, SHIELD, I'm gonna have an aneurysm if you keep saying the whole thing!"

"SHIELD," Phil corrects, "appreciates your cooperation in this matter, and personally, I would be grateful if you didn't attempt to leave the house without me--or if I can't make it, my secondary--for any reason."

Stark narrows his eyes at Phil.

Phil lets himself smile, because Stark is a genius after all. It's a nice change of pace, dealing with someone he doesn't have to pussyfoot around quite as much as the usual civilians he encounters. "What I mean is," he says, "if you don't cooperate, I will taze you and watch Supernanny while you drool into the carpet." He makes no attempt to keep the glee out of his voice.

Stark, to his credit, grins and claps Phil's shoulder. "Threatening my safety while ensuring my safety. That's more like it." He turns around and heads out of the room with a wave of his hand. "I'll be in my workshop. I've got a meeting in two hours, so if you could be ready to leave in three, that'd be great."

Phil shakes his head and starts unpacking.

*

The first day at Stark's passes by quickly and quietly. Stark spends the first few hours locked in the workshop, upgrading the suit and tinkering with about fifty million projects Phil isn't really supposed to know about, and only half of which Tony's _actually_ managed to keep under wraps. Nobody else comes and goes, and Phil's just fine with that--it makes his job easy.

For his own part, Phil spends the hours familiarizing himself with the mansion's layout and checking out the surrounding terrain for potential security weaknesses. The landscape is open for several hundred yards on one side, and nothing but ocean on the other. Still, the building is fairly exposed and while it would take quite a lot to sneak up on foot, Phil spots at least three locations that would be ideal for snipers--not to mention the easy target they make for any potential aerial attacks.

Phil also gets to know JARVIS and learns about the general tasks he oversees on a daily basis. JARVIS confirms that his room temperature is pleasant, shows him where Stark has set up screens with the mansion's security video feeds, guides him from room to room in the mansion, and makes sure Phil gets a copy of Stark's schedule downloaded to his PDA. Phil is not surprised to note that it's completely full, yet Stark seems content to ignore half of it in order to tinker.

"I'd ask you for an approved visitors list, but I assume JARVIS is already on top of that?" he asks Stark when he eventually emerges from his workshop, two hours past the time he told Phil he had a meeting.

"Indeed you are correct, Agent Coulson," JARVIS responds, and Stark gives Phil a cocky _Ain't I the grandest?_ look.

"It's pretty much just you, Pepper, Rhodey and Happy, anyway," Stark says, pulling on a blazer that would look respectable if it wasn't so rumpled, "and I don't think Rhodey's gonna show up for a while."

Phil looks at Stark and waits.

"Rough patch in the marriage," Stark explains after a beat, shrugging. "We're having disagreements." He doesn't clarify further, but that's okay--Phil can guess the details.

"Sir, Ms. Potts is on the phone for you again," JARVIS informs him.

Stark makes a face and doesn't answer JARVIS, or the phone, and just heads out to the car instead. Phil makes sure to catalogue the route Stark takes as he drives them to the Stark Industries office building, at the front of the sprawling Stark Industries campus. He's been to the building before and knows there's underground parking, yet Stark just pulls up at the curb and jumps out before Phil can even say anything, much less get out first and check that everything's clear. Phil has no choice but to curse under his breath and follow him.

When he catches up to Stark in the lobby, he tells him, "Don't do that again, Mr. Stark."

Stark rolls his eyes so hard Phil's surprised he can't hear it, but he doesn't object either, so Phil counts it as a win.

They take the elevator up to the 4th floor, where Stark strides down the hallway with an almost regal gait, and then bursts into a conference room, pushing both wooden doors open at the same time so hard they bounce off the walls. The group of suit-clad people around the table looks up, then clearly dismisses the whole thing in a collective, _Oh it's just Stark_ way, before glancing at Phil and blatantly dismissing him, too. That means they perceive him as a non-threat. Phil's pleased.

"Let's get this party started!" Stark announces.

For the next hour and a half, he leads the group through a fairly heated discussion about his repulsor technology and how to modify it for public marketing without actually having to duplicate what he's using in the suit. Phil's no engineer, so he only follows about half the conversation, but he definitely understands why Stark would want to keep the Iron Man armor's specific tricks to himself.

"But," Stark almost whines, " _flying cars_!"

Phil quietly thinks to himself that flying cars for _everyone_ sounds like a terrible idea, and immediately feels vindicated when one of the suits agrees with him.

Once Stark is done arguing about his repulsor technology, they take the elevator down to the basement--fingerprint security in the elevator, Phil notes--where there's a huge lab. Stark immediately gets into an argument with a man in a white lab coat, and Phil understands significantly less of that conversation. It's possible they're debating something about energy generation, but Phil's not sure.

The rest of the day goes much like that, up and down the elevator so Stark can argue with various people. When they head back towards Stark's mansion, the sun is almost at the horizon, and Phil's stomach is growling. Stark, however, is still going, complaining loudly about being the only person with half a brain at his company, possibly on earth.

"I should just fire everyone," he says, and Phil's not even sure if he's kidding anymore. "It would be more efficient than having them all underfoot, cluttering things up, I mean, I'm already doing all this extra bullshit work, don't see how it'd make a difference, ultimately."

Phil thinks of Stark's full calendar. "Staying busy?" he asks, and means it casually.

Tension pops back up at the corners of Stark's mouth. "Well, with Obadiah gone, there's some slack to be picked up," Stark offers bitterly, and Phil curses himself inwardly. "Pepper helps, though."

When they pull up in front of the mansion, a man Phil recognizes as Happy Hogan is standing by the front door, looking quite angry.

"What the hell!" he says immediately when Stark exits the car. "I've been trying to find you all fucking day!" Then he looks slightly chastised, and adds, "Sir."

"Aw, Happy, baby, I missed you too," Stark says, blowing a kiss. "Next time, try to keep up, yeah?" Then he breezes past Hogan into the house. "I'm thinking Chinese for dinner. JARVIS?"

Phil quirks an eyebrow at Hogan, whose shoulders slump as he sighs in resignation. "You're Coulson, right? He gave me the slip this morning, and then lied to me about his whereabouts. He does that. Better you get used to it now, honestly."

Phil smiles and shakes Hogan's hand, and thinks about how Stark hasn't actually made a single attempt at ditching him.

Stark shares his Chinese with both of them, and while Phil can think of better assignments, he can think of a lot worse ones, too.

*

Ms. Potts shows up on the second day.

"It's nice to see you again," Phil says with a smile when she walks in to find him sitting in the living room, waiting for Stark to get out of the workshop. She's balancing a cup of coffee on top of a stack of papers in one hand, and she's carrying a garment bag in her other hand. He likes Ms. Potts. Her efficiency and no-bullshit attitude appeals to him, and her well-known ability to wrangle Stark--which he's had the pleasure of seeing first-hand, if briefly--is impressive.

"Agent Coulson," she says pleasantly. "Tony told me you were coming. I didn't realize you'd arrived already."

Phil helps her get the garment bag settled over the back of a chair and then shakes her hand. "I got in yesterday morning."

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"Hard to say," Phil says, shrugging. "As of right now, my assignment is on an indefinite basis, but that could change at any moment."

Ms. Potts frowns a little. "But you don't think he's in any immediate danger, do you?"

It's a ridiculous question; they both know Phil wouldn't be here if there was no immediate danger, and Phil clears his throat a little.

"We don't want to rule anything out, Ms. Potts."

"Please," Ms. Potts says, "call me Pepper."

"Step away from the redhead," Stark says, suddenly appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Tony," Pepper says on a sigh, but she's smiling all the same as she hands him his coffee. "I have papers for you to sign."

"When don't you?" Stark asks, eyeing Phil suspiciously and blindly signing the documents Pepper's holding out for him. "Why are you two talking? There's no need for you two to talk."

Phil keeps the bland smile on his face as Pepper shoves the garment bag into Stark's arms and ushers him towards the stairs again. "Go get changed. Go, go!" She gestures at his sleeveless t-shirt and the oil stains and burn marks adorning it. "That's not head of Stark Industries attire, Tony! You have a meeting in 45 minutes, and I'd like it if, for once, you weren't late!"

Stark's still looking at Phil over his shoulder. "You're not allowed to call her Pepper," he says, then takes the stairs two at a time, coffee sloshing in the cup.

"You don't decide that!" Pepper shouts after him, and then groans as Stark's shirt comes sailing over the railing to narrowly miss landing on her head. When she turns to Phil however, her pleasant smile is back in place. Phil's impressed.

"Can I get you anything, Agent Coulson?"

Phil shakes his head quickly. "Oh, no, thank you, I'm good, Ms. Potts."

Pepper's bright enough to catch the glint in his eye, and she winks at him, friendly and happy. "Well, I have work to do," she says, gathering her documents and preparing to leave again. "But it was nice seeing you again, Agent. Please take care."

_Of which one of us?_ Phil thinks, and just smiles at Pepper in goodbye.

*

On the third day, Stark stops a bank robbery and then invites all the near-hostages to the Playboy Mansion that evening. Phil spends the morning relaxing, since Stark actually stays in his suit--only lifting his faceplate to do some TV interviews and grin cockily at the press, throwing peace signs for the photographers and paparazzi--and then he spends the evening sitting in the quietest corner he can find, reading, since Hugh Hefner has a lot of his own security in place.

Stark brings three women home, only grumbling mildly when Phil prevents them from leaving the party until he's gotten all their fingerprints and run a cursory check on them. On the way home, Phil rides up front with Hogan and ignores the sounds coming from behind the closed partition.

"He does this; you get used to it," Hogan offers with a shrug.

Phil just puts on his blandest smile and wishes the partition was sound proof, security risk or not.

All three women are gone by the time he gets out of bed in the morning, and Stark grins at him and says, "Maybe next party Hef can spare a bunny for you, too, huh?"

Phil smiles blandly at him and doesn't tell Stark how he feels about Playboy bunnies.

On the fifth day, Stark takes a trip in his suit to help with a derailed train upstate. Phil watches the footage on the news and rolls his eyes when Iron Man lifts part of the train triumphantly above his head in a grand pose. Pepper sits next to him with her laptop resting on her knees as she pretends not to pay attention to the TV at all, but Phil can see the corner of her mouth twitch.

His days continue to go like that. Stark works, and parties, and shows off in his suit. Sometimes he saves lives. Phil's maybe starting to not mind this softball assignment so much.

*

Nick's right. Of course he is. Unfortunately.

The first attack on Tony Stark happens two months after the press conference, a few weeks after Phil starts working with him. And just as Nick predicted, Stark himself is nowhere near his fancy machinery to actually get _in_ his suit--in fact, Stark's probably located in the last place he should be.

"Stay down," Phil orders Stark, popping his head up over the car to fire again, while at the same time getting a quick overview of the situation. He curses and wishes he'd managed to talk Stark out of this particular point on his calendar.

"Shouldn't I have a gun, too?" Stark asks, voice slightly high pitched and panicked.

"I've got six hostiles," Phil says into his comm link, "heavily armed. We're in a residential area, lots of civilians around, we need backup and extraction ASAP!"

"I got your location, ETA four minutes," Jasper responds, and even though the man has his flaws, Phil's glad it's Jasper he's working with and not one of the other Level Fives, like Williams or Xu--God knows they're both fucking useless.

"Now do you see?" Phil asks, crankier than he means to. "This kind of thing cannot happen anymore."

"I think that's unfair," Stark says, not even pretending to misunderstand Phil. "I just wanted to do something nice, okay, something nice, and they've been asking me, begging me, and I normally wouldn't, I mean, _before_ I wouldn't, but--"

"Being an honorary judge at a grade school science fair is not a priority for you right now!" Phil snaps back, interrupting Stark.

The six men who had jumped out of a black van--and seriously, do bad guys get vans at a bulk discount?--had cornered them a mere four blocks away from the school, forcing them into a slightly shabby looking cul-de-sac and then started shooting. They are dressed head to toe in black, ski masks and all, and seem hell-bent on kidnapping Tony Stark.

"I really think I should have a gun," Stark says again, urgently tugging on Phil's sleeve. Irritably, Phil tries to pull his arm away.

"I can't stop you from carrying a gun if you so desire, I'm sure you have some overstock left somewhere."

"I specialized in _big_ guns," Stark cries, tugging harder at Phil's clothes. "I can't very well carry a missile with me, and we got rid of all the overstock anyway, even the small handguns, you know, clean slate, all of that..."

"Mr. Stark, please," Phil says, at the same time as Stark continues, "I mean, I _get_ that you're here to defend me and all, and that's great, but I feel like I should be able to defend myself as well, and in the absence of my suit--"

"Your three o'clock!" Hogan yells from one car over, and Phil is swinging on autopilot, whirling around and using the butt of his gun to knock out the man who's snuck up on them.

"Thanks," Phil calls towards Hogan. "Extraction's on the way, when they get here I want you to get Stark to safety."

Hogan nods, and Phil's relieved the man follows orders, at least. Popping his head back up, Phil fires again and manages to take out one more of the Bad Guys, whose head is peeking out by a tree.

"We just want Tony Stark!" someone yells as the gunfire temporarily stops. "Give us Stark, and nobody gets hurt!"

"Yeah, no!" Stark yells back, and Phil wants to strangle the man. "I've already met my kidnapped-quota for the year, thanks, try again next year!"

"Do you ever shut up?" Phil wonders as the Bad Guys start firing again. Phil hears glass shattering in the house behind him.

Stark shakes his head. "No, not really."

"ETA?" Phil asks into the comm link, because otherwise he really will strangle Stark--but before Jasper has a chance to answer, the sound of Quinjet engines appears and quickly grows to a deafening roar.

"Nevermind," Phil says, watching the Quinjet descend over the residential area, the main gun lowering to point in the general direction of the Bad Guys.

"Drop your weapons," Natasha says over the speakers, and Phil is pleasantly surprised.

A Bad Guy pops out from behind the van and fires at the Quinjet, and then instantly drops as Natasha fires back with deadly accuracy. "Drop your weapons!" she repeats, and Phil knows her tone of voice well.

A few seconds pass before the last three guys push their guns out from behind their hiding spots and then slowly emerge, arms raised high above their heads. Phil nods once to Hogan, who darts out and ushers Stark away, before he gets out from behind the car, gun leveled towards the men.

"All clear here," he says into the comm link. "Good to see you, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha doesn't answer, but Phil knows she heard him loud and clear. He watches as the Quinjet lands in the middle of the cul-de-sac and several SHIELD agents swarm out.

"Good job, Agent Sitwell," Phil says. "Impressive response time."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Jasper says.

"I'll stop being surprised when you make it a habit," Phil shoots back.

"It's like you _want_ more bad guys to come at you!"

"You know Phil, he just appreciates a good gunfight," Natasha says, walking up to Phil and shaking his hand. "Good to see you, Agent Coulson."

"Agent Romanoff," Phil greets her. "I didn't think you were assigned to this detail?"

"I was in the area," Natasha says with a small smile and a shrug.

"Hey, I know you," Stark says, strolling over from somewhere. "I've _seen_ you! You're in Legal! Something's rotten in the state of Denmark!"

"You're supposed to be _not_ here," Phil tells him, and notices how Hogan's nowhere in sight. Making a mental note to yell at Stark later for ditching Hogan again, Phil raises an eyebrow at Natasha. "You were in the area, huh?"

"Legal is boring." Natasha shrugs again, and walks away without saying anything further. Phil smiles as he watches her go, before turning his attention to the area at large.

The remaining Bad Guys have been handcuffed and are presently being led into the Quinjet. People have started exiting the surrounding houses, and Phil sighs.

"Report?" he asks into the air, and an agent in full tactical gear stops in front of him.

"Agent Coulson, sir. Two hostiles dead, four captured. One hostile is unconscious, one has a minor GSW which can be treated on the way to base. Property damage is minimal, and there have been no civilian casualties or injuries, sir."

Those are the magic words Phil has been waiting for, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Agent."

"Agent Coulson, _sir_ , yes, sir, sir, yes," Stark mocks under his breath.

"Hey!" a woman shouts from the perimeter, where another agent is preventing her from approaching further. "Hey, what's going on?"

A few others have also gathered near her. Phil looks over and catalogues the crowd. The brunette woman who was shouting has a girl around preschool age clinging to one leg and an older girl of maybe ten hiding behind the other. Another brunette woman stands next to her with a little boy of her own, maybe around seven, and a blond man stands nearby with a boy of maybe three years old on his hip. An older couple are standing in their front yard, holding onto each other, while two teenagers have their cell phones out, taking photos of everything.

Catching another agent's eye, Phil gestures for her to confiscate the cell phones, before taking a few steps up and addressing the small crowd. "My name is Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," and in the background he hears Stark mutter, "Oh, here we fucking go again."

"I'm terribly sorry for the disturbance. The area is safe now, and the gunmen responsible have been apprehended. SHIELD will be working with the city to repair any damage to your homes--"

"Fuck the property damage," the blond man with the toddler calls. "What the hell happened? There's _kids_ in this area!"

Phil takes a breath. "I'm afraid that's classified information, sir. I can however tell you that it was an isolated incident, and that it will not happen again."

"Yeah, as long as Tony Stark's not nearby," one of the teenagers giggles, and Phil feels a sting of satisfaction when an agent swipes the cell phone out of his hand and his grin disappears.

"Hey dude, that's not cool!" the teenager protests. "I heard them, though! They just wanted Tony Stark!"

"That's stealing!" his buddy says in outrage as his phone is also taken from him. "We're not doing anything wrong, why don't you guys go fucking harass Iron Man, he's the only reason they started shooting!"

Phil turns to glance at Stark, where he's frozen on the spot, staring hard at the ground. Phil's never seen Stark like this, and it's a vaguely uncomfortable sight.

"I assure you," Phil says with emphasis, "Mr. Stark is not to blame for the events that just occurred. Now, if you'll go back into your houses, the proper authorities will be in contact regarding your property damage."

"Fuck you guys," one of the teens say, but Phil ignores him and instead walks back to Stark.

"Mr. Stark?"

Stark doesn't look up, just scrapes the toe of one sneaker against the ground, kicking a couple of bullet casings. "Mr. Stark, we have to go," Phil tries again, and Stark sticks his hands in his pockets.

"I feel bad," Stark mutters, and he almost sounds surprised by his own statement. "I never used to feel bad." _Before Afghanistan_ , Phil hears.

Stark continues, "Those were submachine guns they were firing." One foot nudges a bullet casing again. "Decent caliber, too. Half a step down from autocannons, really. Any one of those bullets could have gone through the wrong wall, ricocheted off the wrong thing, and with this caliber... This area's full of kids, Agent."

Phil looks at Stark and tries not to let any emotion show on his face. Stark is still not raising his head--Tony Stark, who jeopardized a whole lot of people, a whole lot of kids, simply by existing--

"You can't predict everything," Phil says, then after a pause adds, "You were right to go to that science fair. The kids loved it."

Stark's head is still bent, but he looks up at that, wary, but with something almost like hope on his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Phil assures him, then adds, because he's got an image to uphold and it's important, "But you have _got_ to start keeping Hogan with you, all right? Stop trying to shake him off your tail. It's not a game."

Stark huffs out a breath of air, but he nods in agreement before raising his head. "Let's go home, Agent."

*

Pepper calls when they're in the car on the way home--Phil's driving the SHIELD-issued Acura, since Stark's Bugatti had taken quite a few bullets to the engine--but Stark barely glances at his phone long enough for Phil to see Pepper's face on the display, before rejecting the call and shutting the phone off. A couple of minutes go by before Phil's phone buzzes in his pocket.

Phil doesn't answer, but he does look over at Stark. Stark's got his head turned away, looking out the window, leaning his forehead against the glass.

"She's worried about you," Phil says carefully.

Stark doesn't respond.

When they pull up in front of the mansion, Pepper is right there at the doorstep.

"Oh my God, Tony! Oh my God!" she shrieks. "Do I not deserve a phone call to tell me you're okay? I see on the news that there's a shooting, that you're involved, that--"

"Pepper," Tony groans, walking by her and into the house, but Pepper follows.

"No, don't you walk away from me! Is this a thing now? Are you going to be in constant danger now? I thought it was bad when you were in that damn suit, but--"

"What's wrong with me being in the suit? The suit saved my life--"

"--it's one thing to lift trains and save kittens or whatever it is you do, but do you have to--"

"--and I don't see how one, single incident--just because some crazy idiots--"

Phil lets them argue their way further into the house, hanging back to check the alarms and JARVIS's security settings on his way in. By the time he gets to the living room, Pepper's sitting on the couch with her laptop and Stark's nowhere in sight.

"Workshop?" he asks, and Pepper nods, sighing.

"He wanted to take the suit out. I discouraged it." Phil nods, and Pepper takes a break in her typing to look up. "I know he means well, I know that, Agent Coulson, but I just--this is just a lot to handle."

Phil doesn't quite know what to say, so he says nothing and lets Pepper get whatever she needs to off her chest. Her eyes are shiny, but there are no tears.

"This isn't just lifting trains back on their tracks. When he came back-- _after_ \--I was so relieved. But then everything with Obadiah and... he's changed. Beyond the obvious, I mean," and she smiles a bit ruefully. "I wish he'd talk to someone."

Phil doesn't voice his agreement, just sits down next to her. Pepper goes back to her work, and Phil watches the TV on mute. In the workshop, Stark tinkers.

*

After Pepper has left for the evening, Phil calls Nick.

"I think I _like_ the bastard," Phil says in greeting, and Nick positively _cackles_.

"No, no," Phil objects. "That's a compromise. Standard operating procedure for emotional compromise is reassignment. Pull me out."

"Nothing," Nick stresses, "about this case is standard. Your assignment stands, Agent."

Phil sighs and sits down on the massive bed, one eye on the security feeds. "You owe me so big."

Nick snorts. "What else is new?"

"No, I mean it," Phil insists. "You're handing over your office chair when this assignment is over."

"Yeah, that's something that will definitely happen," Nick says, voice free of contempt but dripping with sarcasm all the same. Phil scowls at the phone. "Now, give me your report on today's events, Agent."

"Ask Natasha," Phil sneers and hangs up on Nick.

*

The next morning, Phil wakes up to find that JARVIS has cleared everything off Stark's calendar for the day.

"Where is he? Has he slept?" he asks.

"Mr. Stark is currently in the workshop, and has been awake for a total of twenty-seven hours," JARVIS responds. "I have attempted to suggest that he get some rest, but he has not been receptive to the idea."

Phil nods and walks to the kitchen to get some coffee. He'd quickly discovered that Stark's coffee machine is always on, and always brewing; it's amazing, and Phil wonders if he can steal it for himself when his assignment ends. "Has Hogan showed up?"

"Mr. Stark received an... emotional phone call from Happy Hogan shortly after returning yesterday. Mr. Hogan received a monetary bonus from Mr. Stark in apology, and is presently resting at his own residence."

Phil can't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise as he pours himself a cup of coffee. "He gave Hogan the day off?"

"He'll be back tomorrow; I just figure he's earned some rest," Stark says from behind Phil, eyeing him up and down. "Not all of us handle men firing autocannons at us with the same aplomb you do--did you sleep in that suit? In fact, do you _own_ anything but suits? Caffeinate me."

"I'm not your butler, Mr. Stark," Phil chides. He chooses to ignore the remarks about his suit and pours Stark a cup of coffee anyway, which he then sets down on the counter, because Stark apparently has some sort of moral objection to being handed stuff, unless it comes from Pepper.

Phil sips his coffee and is unable to hold back the slight wince when he immediately scalds his tongue. Stark, on the other hand, dumps a ridiculous amount of sugar into his cup, then gulps down half of it in one go without so much as a twitch. Phil briefly wonders if his tongue is lacking both nerve endings and tastebuds. "So I've been thinking," Stark says when he puts down the cup. "Actually, I've been more than thinking, I've been _doing_ , because thinking by itself is useless. And so I built an ice cream truck."

Phil blinks a little at the non sequitur. "What?"

"I built an ice cream truck," Stark repeats. "Kids love ice cream. At least I think they do. They do, right? Of course they do, why wouldn't they, and I'm fairly certain I loved it when I was a kid--I still do, really--"

"Wait," Phil says, holding up a hand. He might have to start making his morning coffee Irish. "You built an ice cream truck in your workshop?"

Stark stops muttering and stares at Phil. "Yes?"

Phil doesn't quite know what to say. "Why?"

Stark's still looking at him like Phil's not paying attention. "There's a lot of kids in that neighborhood."

"Oh," Phil says then, catching on. "Oh. That seems..."

Stark nods enthusiastically. "Great, right? Of course it's great, it's my idea. All my ideas are great. So anyway, I'm gonna head over this afternoon, wanna come?"

Phil refrains from pointing out that he's obligated to come anyway, and instead just says, "Sure."

Stark slaps a hand down onto the counter and heads back towards the workshop. "Great! Done deal! I ordered a stock of ice cream last night sometime; it should be here by noon. When the delivery guys get here, just put it in the hallway. I'll handle the rest, yeah?"

"I'm still not your butler," Phil says, but Stark's already gone.

Phil eats breakfast in front of Stark's massive bay windows, and then spends the rest of the morning staring at the security feeds. When Nick calls for an update at eleven, Phil once again demands his office chair as part of his debt.

"Get your own," Nick says.

"It's more satisfying if it's yours, sir," Phil says. "Why'd you put Natasha on this detail without telling me?"

"Because she asked me to," Nick responds.

"What?"

"She apparently doesn't trust the other idiots. I don't know if you've noticed, but the Black Widow has a soft spot for you, Agent."

Phil frowns. "That's..."

"Flattering? Intense? Unusual?" Nick asks.

"Disturbing," Phil concludes.

"Last I heard, she was helping Sitwell dig up information on the clowns who attacked you yesterday and bemoaning the fact that she couldn't head up the interrogation in person. She'll be able to call in her own strike team if another situation arises. Sitwell is still officially your second and your primary contact."

"So she's the muscle," Phil says, smiling. "I bet she loves that."

"To a frightening degree," Nick says grimly, and hangs up.

"Who's the muscle?" Pepper asks as she enters from the hallway.

"My mother," Phil says deadpan, facing her. "Meanest right hook in the continental US."

Pepper laughs, but her face scrunches up in a puzzled expression. "I honestly can't tell if you're serious right now."

Phil just smiles in return and doesn't comment further. "Did you talk to Mr. Stark this morning?"

Pepper nods and rolls her eyes. "The ice cream truck? Yes, he told me. It's Tony's way of trying to make things better. He means well, I assure you. In fact, that's why I'm here. I've brought over paperwork from Legal. Turns out, you still need permits, even if you're not actually charging for the ice cream."

She holds out the paperwork to show Phil, and he glances over it, mildly impressed with how fast everything has been put together.

As if reading his mind, Pepper arches one delicate eyebrow and smiles. "When Tony decides he wants something, he usually gets it."

Phil smiles back because he likes Pepper, likes how smart she is. "Can't say that an ice cream truck is the first thing that comes to mind where Mr. Stark is concerned, though."

Pepper heads towards the workshop, balancing effortlessly on her heels. "You'd be surprised," she says over her shoulder, and her smile has turned fond and soft. "There's a lot more to Tony than people think."

Phil nods and thinks about the arc reactor that's ever-present, glowing from the center of Tony's chest and instantly the center of attention whenever Stark enters a room. He wears it like a badge now, ever since the press conference. Always visible.

"I'm starting to see that," Phil answers truthfully, and thinks about heroes.

*

The ice cream delivery arrives right after Pepper leaves, and Phil stares at the mountain of cardboard boxes in Stark's hallway. Stark comes bouncing-- _bouncing_ \--upstairs, and starts hauling boxes away with great glee.

"What are these, even?" Phil asks, reading the labels.

"Ice cream," Stark says, with the _Duh_ going unspoken.

"Cornetto," Phil reads. "Carte d'Or. Båt Is? Did you--import these?"

"Yeah," Stark says from where he's stacking boxes onto a luggage cart. "Why do you think it took twelve hours to get here? Six hours for the paperwork, six hours for the flight. Well, flights, plural." He scoffs. "Like I'm gonna serve kids basic choco tacos." Then he pauses. "Actually, there should be choco tacos in here somewhere, too, 'cause lets face it, choco tacos are awesome. I was morally obligated to keep choco tacos in stock."

Phil eyes the mountain of boxes again and almost considers helping Stark before the ice cream starts melting, but then decides against it because he's _not_ Stark's butler, dammit!

Stark runs back and forth a little (and where he's storing the ice cream, Phil doesn't know, though he wouldn't be surprised to learn there's a walk-in freezer somewhere in the mansion), and when the boxes are all gone, he claps his hands together and nods. "All right, let's head out."

"Now?" Phil's eyebrows climb up.

"Yeah," Stark says, "It's 3 p.m. Afternoon sun and all, and school will be letting out. Perfect time for ice cream!"

Stark leads the way down to the workshop, and Phil is unable to hold back the smile that spreads across his face when he first sets foot into the bay.

"Don't touch anything," Stark orders. Phil's not having much of an issue following that order, too busy looking around, wide-eyed.

Stark's workshop is filled to the brim with gadgets. There are several desks, with various engines and electronics and hardware piled high. Along one wall, three Iron Man suits are lined up in display cases. Phil's fingers twitch and he's itching to go get a closer look, but Stark's already headed towards the part of his workshop that makes up the garage.

There, among Stark's Bugattis and Ferraris and Lamborghinis, stands an actual, honest to God ice cream truck, in white with red and gold accents, proclaiming _StarKool_ along one side.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Stark asks, smiling. "I built her on a Chevy frame. She's got your standard freezer, music box, speakers, and so on, but I also added some... security features."

"You weaponized your ice cream truck?" Phil asks, incredulous.

"Not really," Stark says with a shrug. "She's more about the defense, really. Shields, defensive alert systems, alarms--a fold-out bomb shelter. That kind of thing."

Phil's not sure he heard that right. "A fold-out bomb shelter?"

Stark makes a face. "Well, it wouldn't stand up to like, a _nuclear_ bomb or anything, but a regular sized bomb? Yeah, yeah, absolutely. And bullets. Holds about fifteen kids, maybe twenty if they're small."

Phil stares.

"What?" Stark asks defensively. "Do you think it's not enough? Should I make it bigger? I don't know how many kids are in that neighborhood. Oh God, I should probably make it bigger, shouldn't I? The kids probably have parents, after all."

"Stark," Phil interrupts, "you're good. Trust me. This is..." He searches for the right words. "This is perfect."

Stark looks relieved, and Phil marvels at what he's done in barely 24 hours. He wonders if he could convince Stark to let SHIELD's R&D look at his fold-out bomb shelter.

"So there's no weapons in this truck?"

Stark considers. "Well... there is _one_..." he trails off.

Phil nods to himself, and glances over at the armor display cases, taking note of the empty pedestal in the front. Looking back at the truck he can see it now, the bottom that hangs just a little lower, the side panels that are just a little thicker than normal. As far as weapons go, it's a brilliant solution, since he knows for a fact nobody can operate the suit besides Stark himself.

"Yes," Phil says in a decisive tone. "Perfect."

A pleased smile spreads across Stark's face. "I call her Vera."

Phil can't hold back the huff of laughter as he claps Stark's shoulder and pretends not to get that reference. "She's stocked and ready to go?"

Stark practically vibrates with excitement. "Yes, yes! Onwards!"

Phil feels vaguely self-conscious riding shotgun in an ice cream truck, but it's not the most embarrassing thing he's done in the line of duty, and he's sure he'll suffer worse in the future.

He does, however, chide Stark when he discovers Stark has torn down a serious portion of the ramp out (and the mountain) in order to fit the full height of the ice cream truck, reminding him of the security threat it poses.

"Got it," Stark says, then considers. "Maybe a collapsible truck? A convertible, somehow?"

Phil smiles as Stark continues plotting, and grabs a Cornetto for himself.


	2. Chapter 2

When they approach the cul-de-sac, Stark turns on the music, and Phil squints, listening. "Is that Black Sabbath?"

Tony shrugs. "Like the kids will know. Wait, you know Black Sabbath? Agent!" he clutches one hand to his chest. "You're showing unknown depths, here!"

Phil ignores him. "Where did you even find a music box version of this?"

"JARVIS made it for me," Stark says with a grin and parks the truck at the end of the cul-de-sac. "Now, you be as unobtrusive as possible, okay? You're too..." He waves both hands in Phil's general direction. "...Agent-y. You'll scare the kids."

He climbs in the back and opens the side hatch just as a couple of kids come running out from their houses, and when he hands the first girl her cone and tells her it's free, her eyes widen comically.

"Free?" she asks.

"As free as America herself," Stark responds grandly, which could be sincere or it could be sarcasm, and Phil rolls his eyes in the front seat.

Phil takes the opportunity to look around the cul-de-sac. It's not exactly the best neighborhood, but the homes aren't complete wrecks and SHIELD's clearly already been through to do some minimal patching up of the damage that was caused the previous day. There's plastic sheeting covering shattered windows and all the bullet casings have been swept up, but not much more than that. Phil sets a reminder in his PDA to follow up with Jasper on the repairs and make sure they get done ASAP.

More kids have started approaching, some with their parents, some without, as word clearly spreads that there's free ice cream. In the back of the truck, Stark's beaming at the crowd, joking with the kids and not-so-subtly flirting with the women.

A blond man walks out of a gray house on the left side of the cul-de-sac, holding the hand of a small, blond boy. Phil recognizes them from the day prior. When they reach the truck the man looks up, his face immediately darkening. "Oh. It's you guys."

"I come bearing gifts," Stark says, holding up ice cream bars in both hands. "Want one? Want ten? Feel free."

Blond guy scowls. "You wanna help this neighborhood, Mr. Stark, how 'bout you open your fat wallet and send some guys to help fix our homes pronto? Or better yet, how 'bout you use that fancy suit of yours to keep shitheads _out_ instead of bringing more _in_?"

Stark clears his throat and looks like he's having trouble keeping his head raised. "Well, I was obviously--I was just--"

One of the brunettes from the day before sighs. "Clint, leave him alone. He's trying to make up for it. It's hardly his fault that someone's trying to kill him."

The man, Clint, glances down at the boy who's now clinging to his leg and looking longingly up at the ice cream bars Stark's still holding. "Yeah, I'm sure he was held at gunpoint and _forced_ to declare himself Iron Man on TV," he grunts, then picks up the boy. "Sorry, buddy, we'll get ice cream later. This one's no good."

"Daddy!" the boy cries as Clint starts walking away, little legs kicking furiously as he strains over his father's shoulder. "Daddy! Ice cream! I want ice cream!" The cries quickly devolve into full-on screeching, but Clint doesn't so much as look back.

The brunette woman watches him go for a moment, before turning back to Stark. "Sorry about that," she says. "Clint can be stubborn."

Phil's been watching the exchange silently, but he sees the way Stark's shoulders don't quite let go of their tension even as he seemingly shrugs it off, and he looks at Clint's retreating back. Making a split second decision, he leans over and grabs a colorful-looking fruit bar and climbs out of the truck. "I'll be right back."

"Hey," Stark says after him, "I thought you were supposed to be on me like white on rice?" Phil ignores him, quickly catching up with Clint.

His arrival is easily heralded by the boy's screeches completely changing tone. "Ice cream!" he cries happily when he spots the bar in Phil's hand, and Clint stops and turns around.

"Here," Phil says, offering the bar to the boy. While still keeping an eye on the child, he addresses Clint. "I'm sorry about Stark. He really does mean well."

Clint still has a sizeable frown on his face. "You know, I told him no ice cream. It's good manners to not overrule the parents when it comes to parenting decisions."

Clint doesn't walk away though, so Phil takes it as a good sign. "I meant no disrespect. It's a really nice fruit bar, I promise, and he just seemed so upset. I'm Agent--"

"Coulson," Clint interrupts, but doesn't introduce himself. "I know. I remember. You're with SHIELD. I know who you guys are."

"You do?" Phil asks, momentarily surprised. "Then you should also know we're the good guys. We wouldn't be working with Stark, much less protecting him, if we genuinely believed he was a threat to anyone."

Clint doesn't look convinced. His son has started tugging at Clint's t-shirt, insistently saying, "Daddy, help!" and holding out the wrapped fruit bar. Clint puts him down on the ground and helps him unwrap it. "All right, but just this one. Can you say thanks to the man for bringing you a fruit bar?"

The boy stuffs the fruit bar in his mouth, looks shyly up and then says, "Fanks."

Crouching down in front of him, Phil takes off his sunglasses and smiles, more openly than he ever really lets himself when he's working. "What's your name?"

The boy looks up at his dad, clearly asking permission, and when Clint sighs and nods, he mumbles, "Lorin."

"That's a really great name, Lorin. Did you hear all the noise yesterday?" Lorin nods, slurping loudly on the fruit bar. "Well, I'm here to apologize for that," Phil says, as gently as he can. "I couldn't stop them from making all that noise fast enough, and I'm sorry about that."

"Why?" Lorin asks, and Phil wants to try to explain, but he's interrupted.

"All right, all right," Clint says brusquely from above him. "Enough. Get up."

Phil stands up and is almost knocked flat on his ass when he meets Clint's eyes directly for the first time. Clint's gaze is sharp and intense, and his eyes are a startling hazel that Phil can't quite get a grasp on. Phil's never seen eyes like that.

"What is it--exactly--that you want from us, Agent Coulson?" Clint asks. He doesn't look hostile anymore, but he sounds wary.

Phil opens and closes his mouth, and for the first time since his pre-Ranger days he's having trouble remembering how to form words, much to his embarrassment. "To--apologize," he eventually gets out.

"Daddy," Lorin says.

"One second, bud, Daddy's talking."

Clint looks back up, his eyes narrowing, and Phil distinctly feels like he can see right through him somehow. It makes something in his chest constrict a little.

Whatever Clint sees, it's enough that after a few long, drawn-out moments, he shrugs and says, "All right, apology accepted." He reaches down to grab Lorin's hand and start herding him back towards the house, Lorin still clutching the fruit bar in his other hand and slurping loudly. Then Clint adds over his shoulder. "Maybe in the future, you could make sure that any kidnapping attempts happen in non-residential areas? Preferably also away from public crowds?"

The words have a slight bite to them, but there's a hint of a smile visible around Clint's lips and Phil smiles back. "Only if you say please," he says and then mentally kicks himself for a lame response.

"Please," Lorin pipes up from next to Clint, and Phil has to bite his lip not to burst out laughing as Clint looks down at his son.

"Traitor."

They're almost at the house now and Phil feels a sudden, unexpected urge to keep them there. "So I'll see you around, Mr...?"

Clint turns briefly, pausing for just a second before responding. "Clint Barton. And I suppose so. Now that you've got my kid hooked on," he looks at the fruit bar wrapper in his hand, "some sort of... Icelandic fruit bars? What the fuck?"

Phil heads back towards the truck, but he can still faintly hear Lorin's, "Bad word, Daddy," from behind him.

It takes serious effort to tone down the big grin Phil knows he's sporting but Stark doesn't say anything, just looks at him with suspicion.

"That's good of you," the brunette woman comments, still standing next to the truck and watching as her daughters go to town on what must be their third or fourth bars. "God knows that kid could use some cheering up in his life."

"Oh?" Phil asks, trying not to sound too curious. He's a secret fucking agent. He can play it cool.

"Yeah," she says on a sigh. "So tragic. It's just the two of them. And to think, that poor boy without a mother! Now, I don't know exactly what happened. Paula who lives down the street heard it was cancer, but my other neighbor Sarah thinks she just up and left them. Either way, as far as I know, Clint basically dropped everything to stay here and raise Lorin. Clint could have been in the Olympics, you know?"

Stark's interested now too. "The Olympics?"

"Yeah," she says, half-whispering conspiratorially. "He used to be an archer, can you believe that? They say he used to be the world's greatest marksman!"

*

In the car on the way home, Stark slips his sunglasses onto his face and smiles into the sunset.

"Yeah," he says, and sounds happy. "Kids love ice cream."

Phil smiles too, and thinks Stark deserves this happiness.

*

Phil gets sidetracked as soon as they get in when his phone buzzes. The display reads _Natasha._

"I gotta take this," he tells Stark. "Don't leave the house."

Stark waves a hand dismissively and flops down on the couch as Phil heads towards his room. "Don't worry, Agent, I'm done for the day. I might nap."

Phil thinks he already hears Stark snoring by the time he flips his phone open.

"You got something for me?"

"How did your little excursion go today?" Natasha asks in greeting, and she sounds smug.

Phil tries not to groan. "Who told you?"

"Perez Hilton." She doesn't snicker, because the Black Widow doesn't snicker, but there's definitely some snicker-like sounds going on. Phil frowns. He didn't see any paparazzi, and that's troubling. If he's so relaxed that he can't spot paparazzi, he's more compromised than he'd thought.

Natasha might be reading his mind because she continues before Phil can say anything. "Don't worry, there were no pictures, just text from a reliable source." A beat. "Also, I did the paperwork for your permits," she admits.

Phil rolls his eyes and sits down on his bed. "Do you have any actual information to report, Agent Romanoff, or are you just calling to mock me?"

"Yes," Natasha says, voice all business again. "The wannabe kidnappers have confirmed they were after Stark's suit. They were hoping to kidnap him to replicate the technology."

Phil huffs out a laugh. "I'm fairly certain the Ten Rings tried that in Afghanistan with his missile, and it didn't go so hot for them."

"Well, they also came at him in the least subtle way possible," Natasha says. "They're not exactly geniuses, what do you expect?"

Phil sighs and thinks about Stark's arc reactor. "I suppose so. Good job, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha makes an unhappy sound. "I'm not taking credit for this. It took them more than six hours to start talking. That's a travesty."

"Six hours isn't bad," Phil says with a frown. "Who was point?"

"Agent Sitwell."

"Sitwell's good," Phil says, and Natasha outright scoffs.

"Sitwell's a softball."

Phil shrugs a little and thinks of his own limits when it comes to persuasive interrogation techniques. "Nothing wrong with that. So am I. And he made headway, didn't he?"

Natasha seems to consider for a moment. "I could have done it faster," she says simply, before her tone lightens and she switches tracks completely. "So tell me about your assignment. How's it going so far? How is Stark? I've heard interesting things about him around the Legal department."

Phil takes a breath and considers carefully. "Well," he says, "he managed to compromise me in a week flat. I think that's a new record."

"You? Compromised? Spin me another one."

"It happens," Phil says, toeing off his shoes and lying back on top of the covers.

"It doesn't happen to you," Natasha insists, then she sucks in a quick breath. It's subtle, but Phil hears it. "You didn't fall for him, did you?" she asks suspiciously.

A full-body shudder actually goes through Phil and he makes a face. "Good God, Natasha. Don't even joke about that. Stark's nowhere near my type."

"Well, that's not really true," Natasha says. Phil's never made his sexual orientation a big secret, but Natasha is on a very short list of people he'll actually talk to about his love life, or lack thereof. "He's scary smart, cocky, outspoken, borderline rude--"

" _Outright_ rude," Phil corrects her, but she continues as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"--he's got the whole troubled thing going for him _and_ a hero complex. Fairly certain those are all things that crank your engine. I'd almost be worried, except you'd never go for a diva like Stark. You like your guys low-maintenance and out of the spotlight, and Stark is neither of those things," Natasha muses.

"Since when do any of those things crank my engine?" Phil asks, still stuck on the ridiculous notion that Stark's his type.

"Please," Natasha snorts. "Everyone thinks you're all into goody-goody boys, like Captain America, but it's fairly obvious you don't want to do Captain America--you want to _be_ Captain America."

Phil scrubs a hand across his face. Natasha's not entirely wrong. Phil thinks about Captain America and Stark and how neither of them is his type, and suddenly thinks of hazel eyes. Closing his eyes, he pushes the thought to the back of his mind.

"Stark," Phil eventually says, forcing himself to stay on subject and considering his next words carefully. "He's been through a lot, and he's still pushing really hard to do good things. I guess I just--respect that."

Natasha makes a soft _mmm_ sound in agreement, and then chuckles at him. "Fury's got you on this assignment for a reason, you know," she says. "And this is why."

Phil frowns. "Why?"

Natasha chuckles again, warmer and kinder than she usually is with anyone. "Because you see Tony Stark, the man, and not Iron Man, the weapon."

Phil thinks of the Avengers Initiative and squirms a little. "I'm sure I'm not the only one."

"Oh, Phil," Natasha sighs fondly. "Don't you get it? You like Stark for the same reason you like Captain America. You've always believed in heroes."

*

Halfway through Phil's third week, there's fresh news coverage from Afghanistan. Stark stands frozen to the spot and watches the big screen TV upstairs, fists so tight that his knuckles go white.

"Don't do it," Phil says softly from the doorway. Stark doesn't move. Phil sighs a little. "Mr. Stark, you can't get involved in this right now. Do you understand?"

He could use his authoritative voice, but he somehow thinks that would have even less of an effect on Stark.

Stark remains immobile, but for a moment the tense set of his shoulders relaxes, just a fraction. Then JARVIS cuts the TV's audio feed and Stark's shoulders hike upwards again--and Phil knows he's lost. "Sir," JARVIS says, "A-1 priority alert coming through. Would you like me to upload the coordinates to the suit?"

Stark doesn't respond, just skulks out of the room and towards his workshop. Phil is disappointed, but somehow still completely unsurprised when JARVIS informs him Stark has indeed left the bay in the Iron Man armor.

The next day, Rhodey leaves sixteen furious messages on Stark's answering machine before Stark straight-up blocks his calls. Stark himself cancels all his appointments and stays in the workshop, fixing bullet holes and cracks in the armor, but when Pepper goes down there with more papers for him to sign, Phil can hear him singing loudly along with the music when the door opens.

"You can go down there if you want," Pepper says when she comes back up. "Do you have an access code? He's actually in a fairly good mood."

Phil does not have an access code. Pepper has JARVIS generate one and gives it to him with a smile, and while he declines the offer to go hang out with Stark, he secretly geeks out over the knowledge that Stark apparently trusts him enough to allow him into his workshop on a consistent basis. He wonders how long he should wait before taking a closer look at Stark's armor so that he doesn't seem too eager. 

*

At the end of Phil's fifth week in, during a press conference about some new medical research Stark Industries is funding, a man storms towards Stark with a knife. He doesn't get close, Phil's elbow connecting first with his gut and then--noisily--with his nose, before he's even halfway across the room. The guy doesn't even have time to attempt to block. By the time he's gathered his wits enough to start moaning about his "broken face," Phil's got him on the floor in cuffs and local law enforcement's arriving to take over. Phil didn't even have to draw his weapon.

It's not even a big deal. Phil thinks of it like a test of his reflexes. He's more than happy to note that his mind is still sharp enough for him to do his job. By the time they've assessed that the attacker is not a real threat, but rather a man suffering from delusions, Stark's looking at him with something that's looking more and more like gratitude.

"Look at you," Stark tells him once they're cleared to leave the area. "All... Double-Oh Agent."

"James Bond is a spy," Phil says pleasantly. "I don't deal in covert intelligence." He pretends he doesn't see the faces Stark is making at him when he thinks Phil's not looking, and just keeps smiling.

"Hey, I was thinking," Stark says, "I could take the ice cream truck out again?"

Phil nods and resolutely doesn't think of hazel eyes and dirty blond hair. "That should be okay. Take Hogan with you. My presence shouldn't be required given that your armor can assemble from within the truck. Just please stay in the truck, Mr. Stark."

Stark gives him a sly look. "Are you sure you want me to take Happy? Are you sure _you_ don't want to come?"

"I have no idea what you're insinuating," Phil lies through his teeth.

"And I have no idea what the appeal is. I mean, the guy's got a kid, that's a whole load of extra baggage if I ever saw one, but I guess when you get to your age you can't be too picky, huh? So I say come with me, go for it, take a chance on love, Agent."

Phil frowns. "I'm not that much older than you," he says, and ignores the rest of Stark's rambling.

"And yet I get laid more," Stark says, then waves a hand. "Anyway, the point is, come with me. Enjoy some eye candy if nothing else."

"I still need to eat," Phil says, a last ditch attempt at getting Stark to leave it be.

"Grab it on the way," Stark says dismissively, and shit--Phil can't really think of any more reasons not to go.

As it turns out, you can't fit an ice cream truck through a drive thru.

*

When they pull up at the cul-de-sac this time, Phil's pleased to see that all the property damage seems to have been repaired. The houses are free of bullet holes, and the windows have been replaced. One house seems to have received a whole new lawn, after the old one got torn up by all the vehicles milling about.

Clint and Lorin are the first people out of their house when Stark opens the side hatch, Lorin tugging on Clint's hand and putting all his body weight into dragging him forward. Clint's looking happier this time, laughing quietly at Lorin's enthusiasm.

"Hi there," Stark says, smiling crookedly.

"Mr. Stark," Clint greets him, smile reserved, but still in place.

"Ice cream?" Stark offers, clearly not holding a grudge. Phil calls it a win.

Clint lifts up Lorin so he can see into the truck. "I think your... agent over there," he stumbles a little over the words and nods towards where Phil is sitting in the front seat, "fed my kid some kind of Icelandic fruit bar. He liked that."

"This one," Phil says quietly, suddenly feeling a little awkward as he finds the right bar and hands it to Lorin who grins big and says, "Thank you!"

Like the last time, Clint puts him down on the ground and helps him unwrap the bar.

"Hey, uh," he says when he stands back up, and it takes a moment for Phil to realize he's addressing Stark and not him. "I'm sorry about what I said last week. Last time."

Stark is starting to look vaguely uncomfortable. Some other kids are crowding around Clint's legs, and as Stark starts handing them ice cream bars, he shrugs. "Said what? Nothing--it's--you didn't, I mean, it's not a big deal."

"Nah, Marley--uh, the brunette lady? That's Marley--she was right," Clint says, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck and looking chastised. "It's not like it's your fault that people try to--do stuff to you," he finishes diplomatically, glancing at the kids. "It was an--uncool thing to say."

Stark waves him off. "All's forgiven."

Clint nods a little, then adds, "For what it's worth--what you're doing? What you did? With shutting down the weapons production and everything? I think _that_ makes you a hero."

Stark looks like he doesn't quite know how to respond, which is a priceless look for him. "Want an ice cream bar?" he eventually says.

Clint grins a little, and part of Phil feels suddenly, irrationally annoyed at how easily the two of them seem to get along. "I thought those were just for the kids?"

"You can have one," Stark says, lowering his sunglasses enough to look at Clint over the top, "on account of acting like a fucking child last week."

"You said a bad word!" a girl cries, and Stark claps a hand over his mouth as the crowd giggles.

Clint's grin grows then, wide and unguarded, and Phil feels like someone punched him in the chest.

Turning his head away, he reminds himself of all the reasons why crushing on a single dad is a terrible idea, and then starts mentally dismantling and reassembling his firearm. It's good to stay in practice.

"Hey Coulson, you want one?" Clint's voice startles him out of his thoughts, suddenly right next to Phil with two ice cream bars in his hand. One wrapper looks Chinese, the other Phil can't identify. Polish, maybe?

Phil blinks at the bars, then looks back at where Stark is _looking at the ceiling of the truck and whistling, for God's sake_ \--and then turns back to Clint. "Um, sure."

Clint grins again, and Phil's going to kill Stark. Jerking his head a little, he hops out of the front seat and ignores Stark's, "Worst bodyguard ever!" comment, in order to put some distance between them and the truck. He's saved from further harassment by Marley, who chooses that moment to approach with her two girls. A few feet away, Lorin is lying on the grass, making a mess of his fruit bar, but he's looking happy as a clam.

"So... is this a thing you guys do now? Ice cream?" Clint asks once he's got his bar unwrapped. He inspects it; it's faintly orange with chocolate partially covering it.

"All Stark's idea," Phil says, fiddling with the wrapper of his own bar, and he's not sure if he means to blame or credit Stark with that statement. "He can be... eccentric."

"Guess when you got more money than God, you're allowed to be," Clint says in a tone Phil can't quite decipher--wistful, maybe? A lot of people get that tone of voice around Tony Stark.

The bar Clint had handed to Phil is coffee ice cream, and Phil savors the taste. "Lorin is cute."

Clint chuckles. "You think that now, but you're not the one who has to deal with his sugar high later on." There's no real bite to his words, though, and he's looking at Lorin fondly.

"How old is he?"

"He's three," Clint says. "He'll be four in December. Don't call him a Christmas baby!"

"I wasn't going to," Phil assures him, then considers his next words carefully. "It's just you and him?"

Clint snorts. "Oh, please. I know for a fact Marley gave you all the dirt last week. Love that woman, but she would gossip to her grave even if her trap was sewn shut!"

Phil's shocked to feel his cheeks heat up ever so slightly, and he busies himself with the ice cream bar.

"Well, go on," Clint says, genuinely laughing now. "Ask!"

Phil only considers for a second. "How much of it is true?"

"If it came from Marley? Probably only some of it," Clint admits. "I don't know exactly what she told you, but uh--it's just, it's just me and Lorin." He doesn't specify further, and Phil doesn't push. "I know for a fact that some of these ladies somehow think that means I'm a very tragic figure, but I assure you I am not dark or tortured, at least to my knowledge. I _am_ however an archer, if she told you that, and I was on the shortlist for the Olympic team." He looks back out at Lorin. "Lorin sort of changed all that."

He sounds fond again, and Phil doesn't detect a trace of regret in his voice. "I still shoot, though. Occasionally someone hires me for private lessons, but for the most part I volunteer. Got a team started at the local high school, and we've got an archery club as well."

Phil smiles, admiring the passion he can hear in Clint's voice when he talks about the archery club. "A lot of the kids are really good, but then there's a couple of 'em, oh man, they're just--they blow me away. Kids are amazing like that, I mean if they're genuinely interested in what I got to say, they just freakin' absorb everything I teach them--like sponges."

Clint's ice cream bar has melted a little bit as he's more preoccupied with talking than eating, and when he brings his hand up to lick a droplet of ice cream from between his fingers, Phil can feel his face getting hot and he has to look away.

(Unfortunately looking away means looking directly at the truck, where Stark is giving him a shit-eating grin. Phil makes plans to ask Nick for a raise.)

"Daddy?" Clint and Phil both look down where Lorin is standing, holding out the stick from his fruit bar. "Done."

"Thanks, buddy," Clint says, taking the stick from him and producing a Kleenex from his pocket to wipe off Lorin's sticky hands and chin. Lorin squirms and whines while he does it, but Clint holds him steady. Once Lorin's free of the worst of the mess Clint turns around and plucks Phil's wrapper from his hand. "I'll get rid of these as well. You go play, Lorin, 'kay?"

"Can I have 'nother?" Lorin asks hopefully, and Clint laughs.

"Maybe later, okay? Go play with your cars for a little first."

While Clint disposes of the paper in the trash can hooked to the truck, Lorin turns around and runs to their house. Phil notices a few plastic cars hiding in the grass and Lorin sits down by them, grabbing one in each hand.

"He's a pretty good kid, huh?" Phil asks when Clint comes walking back.

Something flickers over Clint's face for just a moment, too fast for Phil to read it. "For the most part," Clint says, and when he reaches Phil, his smile is back in place.

"So what about you? Iron Man needs you to watch his tail?" It's said in a teasing tone, but there's an undercurrent of awe there too, like he genuinely doesn't find it an impossible scenario that Phil's there to protect Iron Man and not Tony Stark.

Phil smiles a little. "He can't always be in the suit."

Clint makes a face. "Why not? I would be." Phil looks questioningly at him, and he raises his eyebrows. "You kidding me? That thing is basically a big toy. Dangerous, sure, but still a big toy. Who on earth wouldn't want to be able to fly like that?"

Phil nods and doesn't mention how he's often thought the exact same thing. "I suppose that's not an inaccurate description. So it's not Stark or his suit you have a problem with..."

"...it was the crazy guys with guns," Clint finishes, nodding. "And you were right. It's really not Stark's fault. I was just worried, y'know?"

"Understandable," Phil agrees, and they stand in silence for a little, watching Lori make _brrrr_ noises with his cars while Stark flirts with Marley.

Clint leans over a little, glancing in Stark's direction. "So can he use it underwater, or will it short out?"

"It's Stark tech," Phil explains. "I don't think it has an underwater function, but it wouldn't short out either, I guarantee that much."

"That's ridiculously cool," Clint says with awe, and Phil distinctly gets the feeling that before the Bad Guys entered the picture and shot up his neighborhood, Clint had been an Iron Man fan.

Suddenly there's a whole lot of shouting from further up the road, and Phil and Clint both turn around to see what's going on. From his position by the ice cream truck, Stark straightens as well. A man is exiting a house holding a baby in a car seat while a woman is following him, shouting things that Phil can't quite make out.

"Aw, crap," Clint murmurs next to him, a distinct tone of recognition to his voice, and he immediately walks over to pick up Lorin from the grass.

By the ice cream truck Marley has grabbed Stark's wrist, and Phil frowns. "Hey!"

Striding back, he hears Marley plead with Stark, "--he's not a nice man, please Mr. Stark."

"What's going on?" Phil asks, and Stark nods up the street.

"Well, Marley here says their names are Dan and Jackie. She says Dan used to beat on Jackie pretty badly, and that he doesn't have any custody of their--of _that_ child whatsoever." Stark's face is dark as he over-enunciates _Dan_ , and Phil's frown deepens.

"Get the kids indoors and call 911," he tells Marley, before doing a quick check of his service weapon. Marley goes pale when she sees it but does as he says, arms spreading out and telling the children, "All right, go on home, guys. Get indoors."

Phil glances quickly at Stark. "You stay here, got it?" Stark doesn't respond, and Phil looks at him sternly. "Got it?" he repeats.

Stark glares. "Got it."

Phil's not sure where Clint went--inside, probably--and he can't think about it as he hurries up the street to where Dan's in the process of buckling the car seat into the car while at the same time pushing Jackie away. Now that Phil's close, he can hear Jackie's words as she begs louder and louder over the sound of the baby crying, "Please, please, don't take her, please, stop."

Anger briefly bubbles in Phil, and he takes a breath to calm himself as he stops a few feet away.

"Sir?" he asks, and Jackie stops her pleading as they both look to see who interrupted their fight.

"I'm Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. I'm going to have to ask you to please step away from the vehicle."

Jackie's eyes are wide and her bottom lip is quivering as she looks from Phil to Dan. Surprise, Phil thinks. She's not used to anyone standing up for her.

"What the fuck is SHIELD?" Dan asks, baring his teeth at Phil.

"Please step away from the vehicle," Phil repeats. He can still hear the baby crying.

Dan looks him up and down and clearly dismisses him as a non-threat. Phil's used to it. He prefers it that way; it usually gives him an advantage. "This is a private matter. You ought to do yourself a favor and walk away."

"I don't think so," Phil responds calmly.

"There's no problem here," Dan insists, throwing an arm around Jackie, who looks terrified. "Right, honey?"

Phil winces and shakes his head. "Yeah, I don't think so." He looks at Jackie. "It's Jackie, right?"

Jackie doesn't respond, but Dan's expression darkens. "You don't gotta talk to him, baby," he says with a sneer. Phil sighs.

"I'm afraid I really can't let you leave with that baby."

"Oh, _you're_ gonna stop me, are you?" Dan asks darkly.

Phil simply says, "I am," and mentally braces himself to draw his weapon as Dan grins, nasty and cocksure.

Jackie's still next to Dan, held there by his arm around her shoulder, but her eyes keep darting around wildly. Behind him, Stark hollers "Coulson!" and Phil distinctly hears the sound of hydraulics hissing. That can't possibly be good. Resisting the urge to take his eyes off Dan, Phil's about to tell Stark what a fucking idiot he is because he _told_ him to stay put and getting into his suit was absolutely _not_ one of his orders--but then he _realizes_!

Jackie's not looking around randomly, she's looking at someone _behind Phil._ Spinning, Phil catches a glimpse of long, black hair and his fist is already raised and ready to strike, when something goes whizzing past in front of him and the woman standing there gets forcibly yanked sideways.

She screams, but Phil doesn't really register what happened because that's when Dan crashes into his back. Adrenaline surging, Phil pulls himself to his feet, dragging the other man up and over his shoulder in the process and using Dan's own weight against him, and Dan crashes hard to the ground. He grits his teeth, looking like he's about to get up again, so Phil draws his gun--when suddenly Clint's voice cuts through the chaos.

"Don't fucking move!"

Phil and Dan both look up, and Phil almost does an actual double take. Clint's standing halfway down the street between the ice cream truck and Phil, and he's got a wicked looking arrow--that doesn't look like any broadhead arrow Phil's ever seen--drawn on a sleek recurve bow and aimed straight at Dan. Phil looks over and can't stop the shock from showing on his face when he notices that the dark-haired woman who'd tried to sneak up on him is pinned to a tree with three arrows, two through her shirt sleeves, and one through the palm of her right hand.

Dan seems to notice it too, because his face pales and he asks, "Babe?"

 _Babe_ is gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut. "Hurts," she grits out, "hurts!" and Dan moves like he's about to get up again.

"I said don't fucking move!" Clint yells again, and Dan freezes.

"You know," Stark says casually, and Phil turns around. Iron Man is standing on the other curb, arms crossed. "I was trying to warn you."

Phil puts away his gun again and grumbles. "You know, next time, say there's someone on my six. Don't just yell my name. My name could be anything, I don't know."

"Well, it all worked out," Iron Man shrugs, and Phil is mildly impressed he can shrug in that suit. "You had your little... Robin Hood to help you out." He gestures to where Clint is still standing, bowstring tight.

"What's wrong, jealous you didn't get to save the day this time?"

Iron Man doesn't respond, but Phil would bet his entire paycheck that Stark's rolling his eyes in there. Shaking his head, Phil reaches for his comm link. "This is Agent Coulson. We stumbled upon a domestic dispute. I'm going to need a cleanup team, an ambulance, and--uh, a misdirect on local law enforcement. We've got..." He pauses and looks at _Babe_ again, "...civilian interference."

"The hell did you get yourself into?" Jasper asks incredulously on the other end of the line.

"Just do as I say," Phil snaps, a little more sour than he intended, before walking over to Clint.

"You can put the bow down now," Phil tells him in his Agent voice, because even though his hands aren't shaking and his aim holds steady, Clint is looking positively murderous. "Clint," Phil tries again when Clint doesn't respond, doesn't even blink to show he heard Phil the first time. "Clint, put the weapon down."

Phil doesn't really want to draw his gun on Clint, but he will if necessary. "I saw her face," Clint says, eyes never leaving Dan where he's still sitting on the ground. "I've seen her face a lot of times. I've seen what he's done to her. I've told the cops so many times, and--nothing." Clint breathes heavily once, twice. "He's not going anywhere near that kid."

"No, he isn't," Phil agrees, looking at where Jackie has picked up the baby and is currently cradling it against her chest, making _shh_ noises. She's crying, and Phil's not sure if she's comforting her baby or the baby's comforting her. He points back at Dan. "He had that child out of her hands, in his car. That's attempted kidnapping. That's a felony. We can probably get his girlfriend on accessory to attempted kidnapping, and we _definitely_ can get her on assault charges."

"She came at you with a rock," Clint grits out. "She's the same as him. And they were going to take that kid."

"But I'm fine," Phil says. "The baby's fine. Okay? Neither one of them is going near that kid again, Clint. Put the bow down."

Clint breathes out heavily, on an exhale that makes his cheeks puff out momentarily, before he lowers his bow, still scowling at Dan.

Satisfied, Phil takes the time to cuff Dan--he can't really do much about _Babe_ \--and deposits him on the curb just as a SHIELD Acura pulls up and four agents in civilian clothing jump out.

"Agent Coulson," one of them greets Phil, reaching out a hand. "Agent Ward. Agent Sitwell pulled me out of rotation for a cleanup, is that right?" He sounds disbelieving and slightly annoyed.

Phil nods and looks pointedly at _Babe_ , who's now sobbing softly. "See if you can deal with that."

Ward's eyes shoot up when he sees the arrows. "Is this the, uh... civilian interference Agent Sitwell mentioned?"

"So it would appear," Phil says dryly. "Accomplice at the curb. Local authorities were notified, but Agent Sitwell has been running interference. I want them both first, then after we can turn them over on felony charges. I've also got a civilian to debrief, and a billionaire playboy to wrangle."

"I heard that," Stark protests from the sideline. "I can take care of myself, thanks. I'll see you at the mansion, Agent."

"Wait," Phil says, because Stark also needs to be debriefed, but it's too late--Stark's already airborne. "Fffff--"

To his credit, Agent Ward looks unfazed. "On it, sir," he says, and heads over to where two of the other agents are already gathered around _Babe_ , discussing the best way to get her unstuck from the tree without further injury.

Phil walks back to Clint, who's now looking more chastised than angry, bow held loosely at his side. "If they don't have to cut them, I'd like those arrows back," Clint says, jerking his head towards Babe.

Phil follows his gaze and nods. "I'll see what I can do."

"So how much trouble am I in?" Clint asks then, one eyebrow quirking up and the corners of his mouth quirking down.

Phil shrugs. "You had my back. I see no trouble, here."

Clint doesn't look entirely convinced. "Really? Didn't think that was how SHIELD operated."

Phil frowns just a tiny bit. "And you know a lot about how SHIELD operates?"

"I know enough," Clint says, and that's clearly all he's willing to say on the matter. Phil locks the comment away for later. "Can I take off, then? I need to get Lorin from Marley's. She can't really watch him until I go to work."

"I do actually need to debrief you," Phil says apologetically. "Would you mind coming with me for just a little? You can bring Lorin."

Clint doesn't look happy about the prospect, but he sighs and nods. "I guess. I really do have work later, though."

"We'll get done as quick as we can," Phil promises, and Clint starts heading down the street to get Lorin.

"By the way," Phil says, and Clint pauses, "that was some amazing shooting back there. Your aim is unbelievable."

Clint grins a little then, but it's not a nice grin; it's ugly and nasty. Phil doesn't like it. "Yeah," Clint says. "Haven't you heard? I'm the world's greatest marksman."

*

Phil has great plans to commandeer a SHIELD vehicle (because there isn't a force on earth that can make him drive Stark's ice cream truck--he's already asked a baby agent to do it), when Clint looks at him and shakes his head, laughing like Phil's being particularly stupid.

"Yeah, not so much," Clint says, nudging Lorin on his arm. "Let's take my car. It's got his car seat and stuff."

Clint's car makes Phil question the definition of _car_. It's purple with mismatched tires and a dented _everything_ that might once upon a time have been a Ford Taurus. Phil looks at it dubiously as Clint straps Lorin into his seat.

"What?" Clint asks, noticing Phil's hesitance. "Oh, come on. It passes inspection! I wouldn't drive Lorin around this thing unless it was safe! Would I, buddy?"

Lorin doesn't answer Clint's question, just rubs his face crankily and whines, "No, I don't wanna go."

"It's just a quick trip, bud," Clint promises, then closes the door and goes to the driver's side. "Well? You coming, Coulson?" he asks, looking expectantly at Phil.

Phil's still skeptical, but Clint had made a good point about Lorin, so he gets in. The seats are worn, the plastic bits around the stereo on the dash have cracked a little, but it's clean at least. When Clint turns over the ignition, Phil's pleasantly surprised; the engine practically purrs under the hood. Clint must notice his surprise, because he grins and says, "I take care of my shit, Agent Coulson."

As Phil directs Clint towards SHIELD's LA HQ, Lorin's whines from the back seat get louder and louder. Eventually Phil turns his head to look over his shoulder. Lorin's kicking the car door sullenly, but he's not crying at least. "You okay back there?" Phil asks, voice turning gentle and friendly almost without thinking about it.

"No, driving is stupid and you're stupid," Lorin tells him, and Clint's voice immediately hardens as he glances in the rearview mirror.

"Hey!" Clint says, "Hey, we do not call other people stupid, okay? We do not."

Lorin is quiet.

"Lorin Theodore Barton! Did you hear me?"

"Yes," Lorin says, almost crying now.

"Apologize," Clint says sternly, and Lorin glares at Phil with all the fury such a small child can manage.

"I'm sorry," he says, clearly not sorry at all--and considering how young he is, he manages to convey a surprising amount of hostility in those small words. His stubbornness is adorably reminiscent of Clint, and Phil tries hard not to find it endearing, and fails completely.

Clint sighs and shakes his head to himself, and Phil doesn't comment.

*

Natasha meets them in the lobby of HQ, and by then Lorin has progressed from whiny to full-on meltdown. Clint has an expression on his face that's part embarrassment, part annoyance and part desperation as he tries to get Lorin to calm down, but Lorin is not having it, screeching and thrashing in Clint's arms.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at the sight and then looks pointedly at Phil. "Let me guess--they followed you home and now you want to keep them?"

Phil rolls his eyes and Lorin's screeches, Clint says, "Sorry, he's probably just tired. It's fifty-fifty whether he needs a nap these days or not."

"Agent Romanoff, I assume Agent Sitwell has briefed you on the situation and you're here to help and not just gloat?"

The tiniest wrinkle appears on the bridge of Natasha's nose. "Help?"

Phil gestures towards Clint, "I need to debrief Mr. Barton. If he would be amenable, maybe you could watch his son Lorin in the meantime?"

Natasha glares at Phil. "I don't like kids, sir," she warns, voice lowering to where Lorin won't hear her.

Phil smiles blandly at her. "You're a professional. Treat it like a mission."

Natasha glares at him some more, before taking a breath and straightening her shoulders.

One of Phil's favorite things in the world is watching Natasha work. In an instant, her entire body language changes as she takes four steps to where Lorin is now standing on the floor, sobbing into Clint's jeans. Natasha smiles at Clint, says, "Hi," and then just sort of slides down into a crouch next to Lorin.

"Hi, Lorin," she says, her voice warm and friendly.

Lorin stops making noise long enough to peek at her, little hands still fisting in Clint's jeans. It makes the hems pull up a little, and Phil has to restrain himself from smirking at Clint's bare ankles.

"My name is Natalie," Natasha says, and okay, she really _is_ treating it like a mission, then. "My friend Phil over there? You know Phil?"

Lorin looks over at Phil, then up at Clint for reassurance, before nodding, hiccuping on the remnants of a sob. "He's stupid."

"Why would you say that?" Natasha asks, and Lorin leans over and whispers into her ear.

"I wanted cartoons, but he made Daddy drive."

"Oh no, that's unfortunate," Natasha says, clearly containing laughter and not bothering to hide it. "Doesn't Phil do anything that's nice?"

Lorin thinks about it for a few seconds. "He has ice cream."

Phil knows without question he'll hear about that from Natasha later, but for now she just smiles wider at him. "Really? That _is_ nice of him. Well, I have a question for you, Lorin, and it's an important question okay? You ready? Here it comes: Do you like cars?"

Lorin stares at her for a long time before nodding solemnly, like he's given it great thought. "Yes."

Natasha looks at Clint, whose suspicious expression is fading. "All right, then I have an idea. If your Dad says it's okay, I'd like to take you to see a movie with cars in it so he and Phil can talk for a little. Would you like that?"

Lorin wipes both hands across his eyes and takes a step towards her. "Cartoon movie?"

Natasha laughs, warmer than her normal laugh, Phil thinks. "Cartoon movie," she confirms, nodding.

Lorin looks at Phil, then back to Clint, and then Natasha again. "Can Phil give me more ice cream?"

"Those were fruit bars, bud," Clint says, looking like he wants to facepalm, but Natasha just laughs again and stands up. When she offers her hand to Lorin he takes it, and they all start moving towards the elevator.

As they reach Phil, Natasha stage-whispers to him, "Your ears are pink, boss."

Phil doesn't immediately acknowledge that he heard her, but his fingers still twitch in an aborted move to reach up and cover his ears.

"You're fired," he eventually whispers back as they slip into the elevator, and she laughs delightedly at him.

*

They set Natasha and Lorin up in a conference room, with crackers and apple juice in a coffee mug someone has left behind. Natasha produces a portable DVD player from somewhere that's already preloaded with a copy of _Cars_ , and Phil's long since stopped wondering how the hell she pulls it off. Within minutes, Lorin is completely absorbed in the movie, staring wide-eyed at the screen. When Clint says, "All right, be good buddy, I'll be back soon, okay?" and kisses the top of his head, he doesn't even move.

Shaking his head fondly, Clint follows Phil around the corner and into a different conference room. Agent Ward catches up with them just as they enter, to hand Phil a tablet. "Ice cream?" he asks curiously, and Phil wonders if he can send Natasha undercover in a daycare.

"Yeah, _so_ fired," Phil grumbles under his breath, closing the door firmly behind him.

Clint has already sat down by the table, and his hands are folded on the tabletop, fingers twitching just a little. Slight nervousness, maybe. Phil tries to smile reassuringly, but he's not sure he succeeds because Clint's fingers don't stop twitching. Taking a seat across from him, Phil quickly fills in the preliminary details, then addresses Clint.

"All right, just to be clear, I meant it when I said you weren't in any trouble. Even if it warranted reporting, you were assisting an active field agent and ensuring my safety, which will only reflect well on you, believe me. I basically just need to go over some details, the hows and the whys, what you saw, and then you can get out of here again, okay?"

"Sure," Clint says. Too casual, Phil thinks. He wants to ask about it, but doesn't. Instead he clears his throat and does his job.

"Okay, Mr. Barton," and Clint's face makes a _Really?_ expression at that, "Approximately one and a half hours ago you got involved in a domestic dispute that didn't originally involve you whatsoever. Why?"

Clint shrugs. "I know Dan. I've known Jackie for longer. He's scum. When I saw what was going on, there was no way in hell I was going to let him and that fleabag girlfriend of his take off with Jackie's kid. You should have seen what he's done to her, man. I had to help."

Phil focuses on his paperwork, but he can still see Clint's fingers twitch against the tabletop. "Even though you were in the presence of a government agent and Iron Man?" he asks.

"To be honest, I didn't think about it. I just needed to do something."

It's an interesting choice of words, _needed_ to do something, and Phil nods and makes _mmhmm_ noises, taking notes on the tablet, but also filing away a whole host of other things in the back of his mind: the way Clint's fingers won't stop twitching, the way he carefully chooses his words and holds his intense gaze locked on Phil's face. "So you saw what appeared to be a kidnapping by a child's alleged father. Tell me what happened next?"

Clint takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I made Marley watch Lorin. I got my bow. Got my arrows. Went outside and saw that one chick try to sneak up on you, so I took my shot. I wasn't sure if you'd seen her, but I didn't want to risk it."

"What made you perceive her as a threat?"

"She had a big rock in her hand, raised to strike and aimed at your head. Trust me, she was a threat," Clint says, eyes narrowing.

Phil nods and finds the file on the tablet with Ward's preliminary field report of _Babe_ , actual name Alice Moore, skimming over the information there. "What kind of arrows did you use?"

When he doesn't immediately receive an answer, Phil looks up to find that Clint is looking a little embarrassed. "I made them," he says. "Well, the arrowhead, anyway. I made them."

Phil's surprised again. It seems to happen a lot around Clint. "You made them?"

Clint makes a face. "I designed them. Had them cast. It's a modified broadhead tip. It's not the best neighborhood, you know, and I can't keep a gun in the house." The way he says it makes Phil think it's not solely related to Lorin, and he finds himself more and more curious about Clint. "A lot of people can't even draw my bow, so there's less risk of an accident," he says with a half grin, and without really meaning to, Phil's eyes flick down to the defined muscles of Clint's upper arms. He'd noticed them of course, but having attention drawn to them makes Phil really _notice_ them, and his mouth runs a little dry.

"Right," he clears his throat. "So, you came out and decided Ms. Moore was a threat, then what?"

"I fired three arrows," Clint says, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. "Two through her shirt sleeves and one through the hand holding the rock."

"That's three shots in what, a second or two? With, frankly, mind-blowing accuracy."

Clint's eyes lock on his and narrow ever so slightly. "I told you. I'm the world's greatest marksman."

Phil feels vaguely like the whole conversation has gotten sidetracked, and Clint clearly feels the same way, because he stands up and paces a little, impatiently. "Listen, I'm not sure what else you need here. You were there, you know what happened. I have work in like two hours and still need to get Lorin dinner and drop him off at Marley's."

Phil looks at Clint and wonders about him and his self-made arrows and his _enough_ knowledge of how SHIELD operates. "Can I ask you something?" he says, and Clint sits down again, slumps down in his chair and rests his twitching fingers back on the table. "You mentioned that you have prior knowledge of SHIELD?"

Clint's fingers stop twitching for a split second. It's not a big tell, but it's enough for Phil to notice. "Is this relevant to what happened back there?"

Phil considers lying, but shakes his head instead. "Not really. I'm just curious."

It seems honesty was a good choice, because Clint regards him silently for several, long moments, before taking a deep breath. "Not me," he says, hesitantly, but his voice is still strong. "My brother."

Phil waits patiently for him to go on, suddenly very aware that Clint's sharing something with him that Phil doesn't think he shares with a lot of people.

"Me and my brother Barney. We uh, we were placed in the system when I was a kid. Spent some time in an orphanage. Or, _group home_ , sorry, that's what they're calling 'em now, right? Anyway. We didn't always have the best time growing up, the two of us. Few years down the road, we split up, didn't really stay in touch. And Barney sort of... slid off the tracks for a while. Got all turned around, and couldn't really seem to get himself right way up again.

"I guess one day he saw something he wasn't supposed to. I don't know what, he didn't tell me. I don't even know what he was mixed up in at the time. But he saw something, and he called me out of the blue and told me enough was enough, he wanted out, he wanted--right way up. And he went to you guys for help, he said."

Phil frowns then, because that would have been in their files. Should have been, anyway.

"Your guys told him to come back with evidence, not just some story. He told me he begged you guys for protection, and SHIELD," he nearly spits out, "just told him to fuck off. And then a week later..." Clint trails off and shakes his head, fingers brushing each other before he lifts one hand to run it across his mouth and jaw. "They found him in the New York Harbor. I wasn't even in New York when it happened; I was living in Kansas at the time. I didn't find out till way later, when they finally tracked me down and wanted me to pay for his funeral arrangements. I couldn't afford it, so he's--he's up at Hart Island."

Phil watches as Clint clenches and unclenches both hands into fists, and then meets his eyes, steady and sympathetic over the table. "I'm very sorry, Clint," he says, and tries to convey exactly how sorry he really is.

"Why? Were you there?" Clint asks, but his tone has brightened just a touch, and one corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

"I wasn't," Phil answers. "But I'm still sorry. We should have listened to your brother."

Clint shrugs. "Was a long time ago." Then he seems to straighten himself out a little, rolling one shoulder and rubbing the back of his neck. "So, uh, anything else?"

Phil shakes his head, and smiles gently at him. "No. There's nothing else. Thank you for telling me, Clint."

The small smile Clint gives him in return is warmer than Phil thinks he deserves.

*

When Phil's done with Clint and they go to pick up Lorin, he jumps out of his chair and runs over to hug Clint's leg, mashing his face against his thigh. "Daddy!"

"Hey bud," Clint greets him happily. "We're all done now. We can go home."

"I have to go potty," Lorin mumbles, which makes Phil smile and Clint laugh.

"Okay, we can go home after you go potty."

Natasha points him to the nearest bathroom, and once they're gone she looks at Phil. She's angry, he can tell, but she doesn't say anything about it yet. "How'd it go?" she asks instead.

"Went fine," Phil says noncommittally, then adds, "Barton's probably got the best aim I've ever seen."

Natasha doesn't seem impressed, but then again she didn't see what Phil did, and even if she had she doesn't impress easily. When Clint and Lorin return from the bathroom, Phil and Natasha walk them down into the lobby. Once there, Clint stops for a second and looks at Phil as if he's considering something.

"Well... can't say it wasn't interesting," Clint says, expression softening and smile widening just a little. He seems to relax more, now that his presence is no longer required in the building.

"Take care, Clint," Phil says, because he wants Clint to feel relaxed around him. If Natasha notices--and she notices, she always notices--Phil doesn't want to know, because he refuses to look in her direction.

"Maybe," Clint says, then suddenly picks up Lorin and becomes very interested in straightening his clothes. "Maybe we'll see you around?"

Phil can easily hear the slight suggestion in Clint's words, and for a brief moment he considers just asking him out right then and there, but he mournfully has to admit to himself now is not the time or place. There's too many things going on and he's on an assignment, and Clint sneered when he said, _I'm the world's greatest marksman_ , like it was a dirty and shameful thing, and Phil's not sure how to even begin to interpret that--but goddamnit, Phil _wants_.

"I'll--I'll probably come out with Stark in the ice cream truck again," Phil offers, and is painfully aware of how awkward it sounds.

Looking slightly put off, Clint says, "Oh, yeah--okay," and then he makes Lorin wave goodbye and heads out.

Natasha, who's been silent since they exited the elevator, waves at them as they leave the building, but as soon as they're out of sight she immediately turns and gives a very telling, obvious eye-roll in Phil's direction.

"I was going to punch you for sticking me with kid duty," she informs him in a tone that says she's clearly fed up with Phil right now, "but that was so pathetic to watch, I just can't bring myself to do it."

"Much appreciated, Agent Romanoff," Phil says, half sarcastic and half completely serious. He's been on the receiving end of Natasha's punches before; they hurt.

"You are allowed to have a social life outside of the job, you know?" she says, and walks away.

"Look who's talking," Phil says lamely, but she doesn't acknowledge him. Phil watches her go for a moment, ignoring the bemused look he's getting from their patsy receptionist at the nondescript desk.

Looking back to the front doors, Phil fights the urge to run after Clint and Lorin, and then sighs deeply as he realizes it's been years since he's been so immediately taken with someone as he was with Clint.

"Well. Shit."


	3. Chapter 3

When Phil gets back to Stark's mansion, it's dark and quiet and empty.

"Good evening, Agent Coulson," JARVIS greets him, turning on a few lights. "Mr. Stark has requested I inform you that he is presently in the Middle East with the Iron Man armor, working with the United States Army in an active combat zone in an undisclosed location. He would kindly ask you to," and JARVIS pauses for just a split second, "don't wait up, sugar tits."

Phil's not sure whether to snicker at the phrase "sugar tits" being delivered by JARVIS's dulcet tones, or to be offended at the moniker. He opts for a simple, "Thank you, JARVIS," and then heads into his room to call Nick.

"Agent," Nick says when he picks up. "I was informed there were a couple of minor incidents earlier today?"

"I am exceedingly compromised," Phil says, sitting down on his bed and not mincing words. "Pull me out, sir."

Nick grunts at him down the line. "Negative. I don't give a shit, I've started getting heat from the World Security Council, and you just know those dicks are looking for an excuse to fuck shit up for us. You stick with Stark. From what I hear, he's taken a liking to you. That's good. If he likes you, he might be willing to share his toys."

Phil privately thinks nothing will ever make Stark share the Iron Man armor, but doesn't voice that opinion. Instead he focuses on his own plight. "Marcus, this is getting out of hand. Please."

The first name use and the _please_ probably makes Nick sit up and take notice, because the tone of his voice changes immediately. "Alpha six victor niner?" he asks.

"Negative," Phil responds, closing his eyes briefly. No, no coercion or blackmail. No combat situation requiring extraction or intervention. Just good, old-fashioned emotional compromise. He's become too entangled, too involved and too invested in everything and everyone down here, and it's distracting him. Phil breathes deeply and wonders how to tell Nick, _I think Stark is my friend_ , and _I think I met someone_. He doesn't. He can't.

"At least give me Agent Sitwell," he finally settles on. "Fifty-fifty, on-off rotation."

"Or how 'bout you just convince Stark to live in that fancy suit and I retain an active field agent on my roster?" Nick asks pointedly.

"I heard Agent Sitwell was just promoted to a Level Six," Phil says. "He's good for this assignment, and I need the space."

Nick is silent for a long while, and Phil doesn't speak either, just lets his old friend take the time he needs to consider the request. Finally Nick sighs heavily on the line. "Fine, you can have Sitwell. I'll send him over in the morning, fifty-fifty on-off, Romanoff is your new second, but this better get me the fucking Iron Man armor on a platter, with or without Stark in it!"

"Thank you," Phil sighs, relieved.

"So, there's been some interesting gossip coming down the grapevine," Nick says then, tone changing to smug. "I hear you and Stark have been making visits to a specific part of town."

"You know what, keep the office chair, I don't want it anymore," Phil says hurriedly, and hangs up. Nick is a bastard, and Phil is embarrassed but immensely grateful to at least have that constant in his life.

*

The next morning, Phil walks out into the living room to find Stark and Pepper yelling at each other--something about the Board and Stark Industries and interfering with other people's tech, it's hard to make out as they yell over and interrupt each other. They both look disheveled and tired, Stark at least is wearing the same clothes as the day prior, and Phil is fairly certain neither of them have slept at all, judging from the rumpled state of their clothing and the many loose strands of Pepper's updo. He watches them for a moment, trying to decipher what the argument's about, before sticking his hands in his pockets and clearing his throat pointedly.

They both stop yelling long enough to look at him. "Everything okay here?" he asks.

"Yes," Stark says at the same time as Pepper says, "No!"

"She's just mad because there was one tiny, little incident with the Iron Man suit yesterday--"

"That wasn't a tiny little incident, Tony, you intentionally and willfully interrupted a training drill--"

"--saving _lives_ in the process and isn't that what it's supposed to be about anyway--"

"--I'm just trying to say, you must understand, Tony, the trouble we're in, and the Board--"

"--besides General Ross could stand to be taken down a peg or two, I mean--"

"Okay," Phil says over their arguing, but neither of them acknowledge him this time. "I'll just..." Phil gestures towards the door and shakes his head as he goes.

In the kitchen he's surprised to find Jasper, eating breakfast with Hogan.

"Agent Sitwell," he says, pleased. "I didn't realize you were here already."

"Did you know," Jasper says around a mouthful of bran muffin, "that Stark has a coffee machine that's always brewing?"

"I did know that, yes," Phil confirms, exchanging an amused smile with Hogan. "Good morning."

"Morning," Hogan nods, as Jasper takes a deep gulp from his cup,

"This gig is the sweetest," Jasper says. "You take as much time as you want, I'll be fine in this massive mansion with a swimming pool and a coffee machine that won't quit. Have you seen his home theater?"

"You're on duty," Phil reminds him.

"I don't care, this is fucking paradise. I'll take long shifts. I'll take _all_ the shifts. You go off with your little crush on that DILF or whatever."

Phil's heart does a stupid, little flop in his chest, and he rubs his fingers against the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "That's _not_ \--" He sighs. "DILF?" And then, "Who told?"

"Director Fury," Jasper says, grinning, and Phil reconsiders his stance on Nick's office chair. At his glare, Jasper raises his hands defensively and smirks. "Hey, he didn't say much, he just said he heard through the grapevine that you'd met a hot dad? I think that's all he knew."

Phil sighs. He knows there's no point in denying it, but he still says, "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Agent Sitwell."

"Hey, there are no lies here, the man's a total DILF," Hogan mumbles from behind his newspaper--he's the only person in the ragtag bunch of the Stark household who doesn't get his news from a screen--and Phil narrows his eyes in his direction. Traitor.

"Regardless of rumors, I'd prefer it if neither of you would ever use the expression DILF in my presence again, okay?"

"Hey, if the shoe fits," Stark says--and oh, great. Phil rolls his eyes as Stark and Pepper enter the kitchen and go right for the wine fridge. They still seem angry with each other, but they're not yelling at least. "I may have been responsible for applying that moniker to your little crush, there." He doesn't sound sorry at all.

"You two done arguing?" Hogan asks outright.

"Yes," says Stark, again at the same time as Pepper says, "No!" Phil tries hard not to show his amusement.

Jasper cleans his glasses and looks suspiciously at them. "Who won?"

"Me," they both say in unison, then glare at each other, before Stark sticks out a hand in Jasper's direction.

"I don't believe I've met you, strange man in my kitchen."

"This is Agent Sitwell," Phil says as Jasper shakes Stark's hand. "He'll be splitting duties with Hogan and myself for the foreseeable future."

"Really?" Stark looks at Phil. "Too much for you to handle, Agent?"

"No, he wants more free time so he can date," Hogan succinctly summarizes, and Phil's tempted to punch him right through that stupid newspaper.

"I'm not sure why everyone's suddenly so invested in my personal life, but it stops, right here and now," Phil says, putting on his best authoritative voice. "No more gossiping about me."

"A little too late for that," Stark snorts.

It's not even 9 a.m., and Phil can already feel the headache brewing. Nick owes him _so_ big. _So_. Big. Office chair big, for sure. "What have you been saying about me, Stark?"

"Yes, Tony," Pepper agrees, tone icy. "What _have_ you been telling people?

"It's not like I'm talking to just anyone, it's just Happy. And maybe Rita from Accounting. And maybe I mentioned something to Natalie. You know, from _Legal_." Phil and Jasper both intentionally do _not_ exchange a look. Stark just waves one hand as he pours a very large glass of what looks to be vodka. Phil looks, and yes, the wine fridge has more hard liquor in it than actual wine. "Love at first sight, unresolved sexual tension you can cut with a spoon, future stepdad to little whatshisface, and it's only a matter of time until you get married and move to, I don't know, wherever people go when they stop being fun."

"Unresolved sexual tension?" Pepper asks.

"...cut with a spoon?" Jasper asks.

"You think I'm fun _now_?" Phil asks.

"I was referring to your boytoy, obviously," Stark says.

"That's--not at all better than DILF." Phil sighs as Stark gulps the vodka. He hands the bottle to Pepper, who--to Phil's great surprise--takes a swig straight from the bottle.

"I've had a long night," she explains with a sigh, when she notices his look.

Phil tries hard to wipe the disbelief he knows is showing off his face.

"You're in luck, Agent and Agent," Stark says, nodding at Phil and Jasper in turn. "Your first day on the job, Agent Sitstill, was it? And you get to slack off, because _I_ want to slack off. Possibly sleep. Possibly both."

"Sitwell," Jasper corrects, but it's clear Stark doesn't actually care.

"You have meetings, Tony," Pepper protests, but it's half-hearted and tired, and when Stark doesn't acknowledge her, she just rolls her eyes and turns away. "JARVIS, please clear Tony's calendar."

"As you wish, Ms. Potts," JARVIS responds, and Jasper drops a piece of muffin from between his fingers as his jaw drops a little.

"That is so cool," he whispers.

Tony snorts, then claps his hands together in satisfaction. "All right. Great. A full day of slacking off for all. That includes you too, pumpkin honey bear!" he says, walking to where Hogan is still reading his newspaper--calm and unaffected and seemingly only paying half attention--and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

"Augh, get off me!" Hogan groans and shoves Tony away.

"Do you think I could check out the home theater?" Jasper asks Phil with a grin, and Phil feels like he's surrounded by five-year olds.

"Absolutely," Tony says enthusiastically. "In fact, why don't you come with me, I'll show you what Jurassic Park looks like when it's my tech running the show! You like Jurassic Park, right? Of course you do, everyone loves dinosaurs, you'd be insane not to, and then you can tell me all about Agent. Like, what's his deal? I need to know. And _you_ , Agent," Tony grins at Phil, "should call your boytoy, DILF, whatever we're calling him."

"How about you don't call him anything at all?" Phil suggests dryly.

"How about _Clint_ ," Tony mocks. "Seriously. Just ask him out."

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees Jasper mouth _Clint_ at Hogan, who stifles a smile, and he makes a mental note to stop that unholy alliance before it can develop further. Sighing longsufferingly, Phil grabs a cup of coffee and shakes his head.

"You're free to go watch dinosaurs, Agent Sitwell," he says. " _I'm_ going to go do some work, and in the meantime I'd like to remind the three of you that you are all grown, responsible, capable adults who have better things to do than sit around gossiping about my _private_ life." He puts extra emphasis on private, in a futile hope someone might listen.

"You wound me, I am none of those things!" Stark shouts after him, but Phil refuses to acknowledge him further.

*

Phil's on a couch in one of Stark's studies, filling out paperwork for the incident at the cul-de-sac and fiercely missing his office where he could order at least ten different baby agents to do his paperwork for him if he wanted to, when there's a soft knock on the door and Pepper enters. She's carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a small folder in the other.

"Ms. Potts," Phil says pleasantly, mostly because she's asked him repeatedly to call her Pepper, and it's a matter of principle now.

"Phil," she returns, pointedly as always. She looks slightly more rested, hair re-done into a new updo, and she's changed outfits. "You've been in here a while. I thought you might need a refill?"

Phil smiles gratefully at her as he accepts the coffee. "Thank you. I would have thought you'd be asleep by now?"

Pepper sighs. "No rest for the wicked," she says, sitting down next to him and placing her folder on the table. "Or the unfortunate souls employed by Tony Stark."

"Somehow I feel like you don't really mean that," Phil can't help but tease. He likes Pepper a lot, and their evolving friendship is one of his favorite things about this assignment. It almost makes up for the lack of baby agents to boss around. Almost.

Pepper doesn't contradict him, instead smiling like she's got a poorly kept secret, then nudges the folder towards Phil.

"I also thought you might want to see this," she says.

"What is it?"

She doesn't respond, so Phil reaches over to open it--and then has to catch himself to avoid gaping in surprise. Turning over a few pages, Phil skims over proposal after proposal for charitable ways of helping out not only Clint's neighborhood, but others in the area as well, several of which are significantly worse off than Clint's. There's mock budgets for educational funding, after school programs, scholarships and stipends for academic excellence, as well as social programs to help troubled teens, teen parents, and children in the foster care system. About half of it is written in Pepper's professional tone, some of it is in the early draft stages, and there are a couple of rapidly scribbled notes in Stark's scratch between the individual sheets of paper.

"When--when did he even have time to do all this?" Phil asks.

Pepper shrugs a little. "He's been working on it since the day after the shooting, but I'm getting ready to put it all together to present it to the Board."

Phil thinks about Clint's voice when he'd said, _This neighborhood's in enough trouble already,_ and thinks about Stark and the haunted look he sometimes gets in his eyes.

"I didn't know," Phil starts, and doesn't know how to finish that sentence.

"You didn't know that the apology he thinks he had to make would extend beyond an ice cream truck?" Pepper says gently, still smiling.

Phil looks at the paperwork and remembers Pepper's disheveled looks this morning and her easy banter with Stark, and he very carefully doesn't meet her eyes when he asks, "Do you--date, Ms. Potts?"

"I'm flattered but I think we work better as just friends," Pepper responds sarcastically, and it draws a huff of laughter from Phil. "Yes, Phil. I date."

"Really?" Phil has to admit he's a little surprised. Mostly because of her busy life and the attraction to Tony he's still not sure whether she's acknowledged or not.

"Really. Not often, mind you. I don't have much time. Tony is demanding and unconventional, which does put a damper on my personal life, but I'm of the opinion that I still deserve to actually _have_ a personal life."

Phil considers this, and recalls Natasha telling him something along those lines as well.

"Do you?" Pepper asks, her tone softer than before.

It's a loaded question. Phil hasn't dated in years, but if he's honest with himself that's more due to a self-imposed rule than anything else. His work takes up a lot of his time, and sometimes it seems like it's consumed his entire life. That's not necessarily a bad thing, because Phil _loves_ his work. He thinks about Nick and everything they've been through together, and doesn't really regret any of the sacrifices he's made to get where he is today--but then there's Clint. With his sharp eyes and his sexy voice, and Phil's cheeks heat faintly just thinking about it.

"I don't--normally date," Phil says, and Pepper leans back a little, looking thoughtful.

"This is how I see it," she says sensibly. "Call and ask him out. The worst he can say is no."

Phil's not entirely certain he agrees with that assessment, but he knows she's got a point.

*

The only reason Phil's hands don't shake as he finishes dialing Clint's number is his many years of dealing with stressful situations in the field. He might not even pick up, Phil tells himself, and is then immediately proven wrong, of course, when Clint picks up after only two rings.

"Hi, Mr.--Clint," Phil says, and then wants to slam his face against the nearest wall.

Clint sounds amused when he says, "Hey, Phil. Any more questions for me?"

To his horror, it's difficult to get the words out right, and Phil almost _stutters_. "No--this is more of a personal nature--the call, I mean. There's nothing wrong with the debriefing." Phil takes a deep, quiet breath and draws on every reserve he has to stay calm. "I was actually calling because I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date?" He's pleased at how calm and confident he sounds, so of course he immediately ruins the whole thing by reflexively adding, "With me." Just in case that wasn't clear.

Phil is eternally grateful there's no internal surveillance in Stark's mansion, outside of his workshop. Having this humiliation on tape would have been too much for him to handle, honestly.

There's complete silence on the other end for several, long seconds, and Phil winces and wonders if he is too old to hang up the phone in pure terror. But then Clint speaks again, his tone still light and amused as he says, "Yeah. I'd really like that, Phil. When were you thinking?"

Phil startles a little then, and he realizes that he hadn't actually expected Clint to say yes! A pleasant feeling spreads in his gut, like butterflies in his stomach, and he breathes easier. "Are you free tonight?"

"I can be," Clint offers, and Phil doesn't even try to hold back the smile that breaks out across his face at that. When they hang up the phone, Phil's got a date.

*

Phil feels slightly ridiculous picking Clint up in his SHIELD Acura, but it's the vehicle he had on hand. Stark would probably have let him borrow one of his fancy cars if he'd asked, and while the thought was tempting--very, _very_ tempting, because holy smokes, some of Stark's cars are out of this _world_ and Phil loves sleek cars--having to divulge the fact that Phil would be using said car to take Clint on a date was enough to persuade him otherwise. Stark would never let him hear the end of it.

So Phil pulls up in front of Clint's house in his SHIELD Acura and feels slightly ridiculous about it. That only lasts until Clint walks out of the house and slides into the front seat with a blatant look up and down Phil's body--and then Phil forgets all about the car.

"Nice," Clint says. "Unexpected."

Phil shrugs a little in his shirt and khakis. "Suits are my uniform. Besides, a suit wasn't appropriate for the occasion."

Clint looks intrigued as Phil pulls away from the curb. "Where are we going?"

Phil shrugs. "You'll have to wait and see."

Clint looks like he wants to press further, but in the end he drops it, leaning back in his seat.

"I'm glad you called," he says, and Phil feels vaguely embarrassed.

"I have to admit, I'm a little surprised you agreed."

"Why?" Clint asks. "Because of Lorin?"

"There's that," Phil says with a nod. "Mainly that. And you also seemed to harbor some--hostility towards SHIELD in general because of…" He curses internally as he realizes that Clint's dead brother is probably not a good First Date topic. "Uh, sorry."

"Smooth," Clint says dryly, but thankfully doesn't sound upset. They settle in comfortable silence for a little while, before Clint moves in the passenger seat, a shrug of his shoulder that's just enough to catch Phil's attention. "There are downsides to everything. I figured you were worth the chance anyway," he says, nervousness evident underneath his casual tone.

Phil smiles then, because he knows the feeling well.

*

Phil takes Clint to Pacific Park, and only feels slightly cheesy about it. "This is a terribly selfish date, but I've never been here," he explains, but Clint doesn't seem to mind. They get hot dogs and go on the Ferris wheel, and Clint absolutely _trounces_ Phil several times at Whac-A-Mole. He tries to offer the stuffed animal he wins to Phil, who laughs it off and tells him to take it home to Lorin.

Later, they get soft serve. Clint tries some, and makes a thoughtful noise in his throat, giving Phil a sly look. "Not bad, but it's no _Napolact_ ice cream," he teases. Phil thinks about Stark's ice cream truck and feels like he's blushing. Ice creams in hand, they go lean on the railing and people-watch together.

"So, I know you volunteer at your local high school and sometimes teach archery, but I think I never actually found out what you do for a living," Phil says, and Clint laughs.

"I'm in construction. Sort of," he says, and his grin grows when Phil's eyebrows go up. "I do house restoration? I buy them cheap, fix them up and then flip 'em."

"That's pretty impressive," Phil admits, "and not at all what I'd have guessed."

"It's a living." Clint shrugs. "I wish I could teach archery full time, honestly."

"Why don't you?" Phil asks.

Clint considers for a few seconds. "I'm trying to, but the clients that pay well enough also lose interest the fastest. I have a couple of well-paying regulars, but with one or two exceptions, the people who really love it--I mean _really_ love archery--are the kids I volunteer for at the high school. And I don't want their money. I mean if I was _that_ desperate for money, I'd have kept pushing for the Olympic team."

Phil nods, because it's understandable and Clint seems like he genuinely cares about people. "Yeah, how did that whole thing happen?"

Clint gets an unreadable expression on his face, briefly looking away, and for a moment Phil wonders if he's said something wrong. But then Clint turns back, and he's smiling. "I was living in New York at the time, and I started going to this archery range out in Jersey. I wasn't really, uh, doing much with myself at the time, so I had a lot of free time on my hands." Clint's smile turns wry for a moment. "So anyway, I'm out there a lot, when this trainer, Mr. Sloane, starts coming in with his little protegé or whatever, says their fancy private range is doing renovations, so they're working in public for a while. And I guess he saw me shoot, 'cause he tells me he's coaching this other dude in the hopes of making the Olympic team, and he wants to work with me. And I guess that was it? I worked with him for a while, won some competitions, but never actually made the team since Lorin was born before tryouts."

Clint tells the story with a nonchalance that baffles Phil, because he's got a vague idea of the kind of effort Olympic athletes put into their sport.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" he asks.

Clint clears his throat, looking full-on embarrassed. He finishes his ice cream, wiping crumbs from the cone off his chin before he speaks again,. "Um, the circus?" he says, like he thinks Phil might not believe him.

Phil tries not to stare, but it's difficult. "The circus," he says flatly.

Clint's neck turns a faint shade of red and he reaches for his wallet. "Okay, so, don't judge me please?"

Phil grins, teasing. "Oh, it's way past that. The judgment is out in full force."

"Shut up," Clint mumbles, but he's still grinning as he opens his wallet and pulls out a photo. It looks like it's been printed off the internet and the ink is faintly smudged, but it's still unmistakably a young, teenaged Clint--wearing a purple leotard and drawing a bowstring tight.

Phil can't hold back the surprised bark of laughter that escapes him. "Are you serious right now? This is you?" he asks, even though it's so obviously Clint. The hair and the eyes that glint underneath the purple mask, and the defiance and stubbornness that seems ever-present in the way Clint carries his shoulders.

Clint sighs and rolls his eyes a little. "Okay, so my brother and I, we--well, basically, we ran away and joined the circus. It was a--whole thing."

Phil feels like his face might start hurting soon, he's smiling so wide. "This is where you learned? How long were you there? Why'd you leave?" He's got about fifty million questions and he's trying to sort them all out in his mind.

"That's where I learned," Clint confirms, and for the briefest of moments his smile falters. "I, uh, I had a falling out with my mentor when I was about nineteen. That's when I left."

Phil's own grin fades a little, as he recognizes the signs of a painful topic. "I'm sorry," he offers, "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Clint seems to shrug it off. "It was a long time ago. And I brought the picture to show you. I don't normally carry around a photo of my glory days as The Amazing Hawkeye, you know?" He laughs a little, but it's clear his heart isn't completely in it anymore.

Phil considers for a moment, before figuring in for a penny, in for a pound, and asks, "And what about Lorin? What happened to his mom?"

The change in Clint's body language is immediate. His shoulders pull tight, and his face just sort of--shuts down. Something dark appears in his eyes that makes Phil shudder and immediately regret asking the question.

"It's complicated," he says, and Phil's not sure what he means. "She's not in the picture anymore though, and that's all that matters."

"Is she--?" he starts, before he can stop himself, because digging deeper is habit.

"Not up for discussion," Clint says, a little harsher than Phil had expected.

Then it's like a cloud drifting away again, and Clint's face opens back up, shoulders relaxing and lowering as one corner of his mouth quirks back up. "Man, you have _awful_ dating game, Phil," he teases, but there's still a slight edge underneath the lighthearted words.

Phil looks at Clint and thinks about the incredible life he must have lived, and the great tragedies he must have survived, thinks about what Clint _didn't_ say, about foster care and the circus and Lorin's mother, and feels an immeasurable amount of respect for him. It occurs to him that Clint's strength is part of what attracts him, because it practically radiates from him in everything he does, from how he carries himself to how he holds Lorin's hand.

"I'm sorry," Phil says, for a lot of reasons, feeling chagrined. "I'm out of practice," he confesses. "It's been a while."

"Well, make it up to me. Tell me something about you?"

Phil feels his eyebrows climb up. "Something about me?"

"Yeah," Clint nods. "Something about you. Something interesting. Or dark. Or depressing. Or embarrassing." His tone brightens a little. "I mean, this can't get much more awkward, right?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Phil mutters, feeling, if possible, even dumber than before. He doesn't think his life has been particularly interesting, at least not interesting enough to be first date conversation material, and the parts of his life that have been _very_ interesting are classified. "I don't really know what to tell you," he says lamely.

"Well, how about telling me how you ended up in SHIELD?" Clint asks. "In fact, how does anyone ever end up working for you guys? You guys grown in labs, or what?"

Phil carefully doesn't think about Steve Rogers and the SSR when he says, "No. Not all of us. Just some of us."

Clint looks like he wants to laugh, but he rolls his eyes instead.

"I actually knew the Director, way back when," Phil explains. "We served in the army together. He recruited me."

"Army, huh?"

"Rangers," Phil explains. "Career, until Director Fury convinced me SHIELD was the better offer."

Clint tilts his head a little, and something in his eyes changes. "Was it?" he asks, and it sounds a little bit like a challenge.

Phil wonders what Clint thinks about him, about his work at SHIELD, but he's got enough things in his life he's not permitted to talk to Clint about. His enjoyment of his job is not one of them. "Yeah," Phil says with a nod, and adds a smile to help diffuse the slight tension that's sprung up between them. "It was. I love my job."

"Yeah, I can tell," Clint says, but there's no real sting in his words anymore, and whatever Phil saw in his eyes is gone again.

"I'm sorry about the whole..." Phil says, and trails off for a moment. "My foot likes to live in my mouth, apparently."

Clint grins at him them, wide and unguarded. "It's okay, Phil. Probably for the best that you know sooner rather than later that there are some subjects that aren't up for discussion. You shouldn't have to deal with my baggage if you don't want to."

"I'm okay with baggage," Phil says quickly.

"Plus," Clint adds, clearing his throat a little. "I get it, you know, I'm used to people wondering about me and Lorin. It just usually doesn't happen on the first date." Suddenly Clint pales a little and holds out his hands. "Not that I date a lot. I mean--"

"Nothing wrong with dating," Phil reassures him with a slight smile, and Clint relaxes. "Clearly, _not_ dating isn't doing me any favors. And," he adds, carefully taking a step closer to Clint, "if it's any consolation, I think you're really great with Lorin."

It's a trite compliment, and a cliche, yet Clint looks at him as if he's never heard it before in his life. "Really?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Really," Phil confirms, carefully reaching out a hand and placing it over Clint's. Their fingers don't tangle or anything; it's just a slight touch of skin against skin, but Clint seems to get the message loud and clear.

He laughs, seeming more free and relaxed than ever before. "Man, you would _not_ think so highly of my parenting skills if you'd seen us at dinnertime!"

 _I'd like to_ , Phil thinks before he can stop himself, and then has to bite his tongue not to smack himself in the face. "Why, what happens at dinnertime?" he manages to ask instead, voice steadier than he feels.

Clint pulls his hand away from Phil to gesture, and Phil focuses really hard on not staring at those long, nimble fingers. "Oh man," Clint says, "he's in this picky eater phase. He'll hardly eat anything except fries, but it's not like I can just feed him fries every night, you know?" Phil chuckles and nods in agreement, and watches as Clint's hands move wildly, illustrating his tale of Lorin's infatuation with french fries and his intense hatred of cucumber.

*

When Phil pulls up at the curb in front of Clint's house, he puts the car in park, but doesn't kill the engine. He's not sure of dating etiquette anymore. Clint gives him a warm smile and puts his hand on Phil's knee, and Phil tries not to jump out of his skin at the touch.

"I am really glad you called," Clint says.

"Even if I broke every first date rule in the book?" Phil asks with a slight wince.

"You weren't so bad," Clint says slyly. Phil feels his ears heat up and wonders how bringing up your date's dead sibling and the not-up-for-discussion mother of his child counts as _not so bad_. He must have given Clint a skeptical look, because Clint rolls his eyes and nods. "All right, fine, you were pretty bad, but lucky for you, you make it work."

"That's… only a little comforting," Phil says.

Clint sighs, sounding almost fond as he says, "Listen, if your employers being who they are didn't scare me off, lack of dating game sure as hell wasn't going to do the trick."

Phil considers this, thinks about the pinched look on Clint's face the first time they'd met, and the happiness in his voice when he'd accepted the date. He thinks about sitting at the top of the Ferris wheel, cool evening breeze in his hair and Clint a warm presence at his side, and smiles. "I had a good time," Phil says, because he doesn't think he can say much else.

Clint twists in his seat and looks at his house, before turning back to Phil, corners of his mouth quirked up and a glint in his eyes. "All right, had to check that Marley wasn't looking out the window. She's babysitting, and she can be such a snoop. Anyway, since we've now established that you're terrible at this, I'll make this simple for you: this is indeed the end of our first date, you don't have to walk me to the door because I am a grown man, but I _am_ going to kiss you in about five seconds, if that's okay with you?"

Phil blinks. "That's--acceptable," he says, and sounds remarkably calm considering his heart just skipped at least two beats.

Clint sounds relieved when he laughs, and it makes Phil want to laugh as well, but he never quite gets there before Clint's leaning forward and kissing him lightly.

Clint's lips are warm and dry at first, and there's a faint rushing sound in Phil's ears that he normally associates with the adrenaline high of a firefight. He's fairly certain nobody's shooting at them--though he has to admit he can't be completely sure, since just then, Clint moves his lips a little to get some moisture between them and gently sucks on Phil's lower lip. Phil's just grateful he manages to return the kiss.

When Clint pulls back, his pupils are blown and his smile is widening, tongue darting out to lick his lips, as if he's savoring the taste of Phil.

"There's hope for you yet, I think," he teases, and Phil _almost_ makes an undignified noise in his throat.

"Good," is what he manages to get out instead, and is once again amazed at how calm he sounds. "I take it you're interested in a second date, then?"

"A second," Clint confirms with a cheeky grin, "and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth."

"My 'dating game' can't be lacking _that_ much, I guess," Phil remarks, and chuckles when it earns him a grimace from Clint.

"'Don't get cocky, kid,'" Clint quotes at him, and then presses another, lightning-quick kiss to Phil's lips, before getting out of the car. He ducks his head to look in through the open door. "I'll call you later?"

"Sounds good," Phil confirms, and Clint winks at him ( _winks_ \--Phil's heart stutters in his chest again) before closing the car door and heading towards his house.

Phil's still not sure about the dating etiquette, but he watches until Clint's all the way inside anyway, before he pulls away from the curb. He's fairly certain he couldn't stop smiling right now even if his life depended on it.

*

Phil gets back to the mansion, and finds Stark coming downstairs just as Phil's walking through the living room.

"Did you just come from outside? You're not wearing a suit. You're wearing non-Agent clothes! Where have you been?" Stark asks, suspicion in his voice.

"Out," Phil responds.

Stark narrows his eyes and leans forward. He's wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt with a hole cut out for the arc reactor, and his hair is tousled. It all contributes to making him look slightly manic. "Out doing _what_ , exactly, Agent Coulson?"

"Secret agent stuff," Phil says, letting some flippancy creep into his voice and a slight smile come forward, because he knows it'll annoy Stark. "Hence the clothes. It's really super secret stuff."

Stark's eyes narrow further. "Yet you're smiling."

Phil intentionally wipes the smile off his face and then says, as seriously as he can, "I smile all the time, Mr. Stark."

Stark catches on then, and straightens back up, making a face at him. "That's not funny, Agent."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine. Go on. Mock me. Join the ranks. I get no respect around here."

"Respect is earned," Phil says, and then has to bite his lip when Stark freezes and gives him a deadly glare.

"I'm taking away your Pepper privileges," Stark snaps. "No more Pepper-time for you. You're a bad influence on her. Or, I mean, she's a bad influence on you. Actually, you're both a bad influence on each other. Back off."

"I'm sure she'll be more than happy to oblige you in your quest to control every aspect of her private life," Phil says dryly, and Stark rolls his eyes.

"Whatever."

"Anyway, it's pretty late--are you only now getting up?"

Stark snorts and turns to head towards the kitchen. "This idea that business can only be conducted during daytime is archaic and oppressive, and I will not stand for it anymore." Without looking back, he pumps his fist in the air. "Fight the power!"

Phil shakes his head and sighs as he reminds Stark, "Don't leave the building without your armor or one of us, please." Stark doesn't respond, and Phil is willing to bet good money that he'll take the suit many times over before waking either Jasper or himself, but at least he's dropped the subject of where Phil was tonight.

That thought brings back memories of standing at the pier with Clint, hands touching loosely, and Phil lets himself smile as he retreats back to his room for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning finds Stark surprisingly awake and alert. He wanders into the kitchen while everyone is having breakfast. Phil is slightly disturbed by how _cozy_ breakfast time at the Stark mansion has suddenly become.

He stands in front of Stark's floor-to-ceiling windows with a coffee in one hand, a donut in the other, reading the news headlines that JARVIS is projecting for him. Pepper is next to him, half glancing at the news and half glancing at her tablet as she goes over Stark's schedule for the day. Behind them both, Jasper and Hogan eat breakfast at the kitchen table, debating some sport or other--Phil is actively trying to tune them out--while Hogan's reading his newspaper.

Stark is flitting around the room from person to person. One second, he's leaning over Pepper's shoulder to poke at something on her tablet and bicker with her when she tries to swat his hands away, and the next second he's at the table, stealing things off Hogan's plate and rubbing Jasper's head--"For good luck!"

"All right," Pepper says with satisfaction in her voice, turning to Stark and holding out the tablet. "Tony, I've got your schedule straightened out after yesterday."

"Actually, Pep, I'm not feeling well," Stark argues. "Let's have another day, huh?"

"Not a chance," Pepper says, "You're not sick, Tony; you're sleep deprived and probably hung-over--"

Tony gasps in indignation. "I am not hung-over! I didn't even have anything to drink all night!"

"--so if you could stop trying to make excuses and pay attention, please? You've got a Board meeting at ten, an inspection at noon, lunch with Mr. Saul Williams at one, you're scheduled to be at R&D by three, please don't be late, they want to talk to you about the arc reactor ideas you have, and--"

"Who's Saul Williams, again?" Stark asks, coughing a little as he chews on one of Hogan's Eggo waffles.

"--they want to--he's the Regional Manager of SweTe--"

"--oh, right right, the Swedish guys who want to--

"--negotiate a deal for an OS for the StarkPhone line--"

"Waste of time," Stark says, waving a hand, "I won't be using anyone else's OS. Why would I need to?"

"But keeping a good relationship with the company could be beneficial later," Pepper argues.

Stark coughs around his waffle again and shakes his head adamantly. "No, Pep. Nope."

Pepper sighs in that heavy way that means she's fed up, and Phil takes the opportunity to turn to Jasper and nudge his shoulder lightly when they start bickering again.

"Hey," he says quietly, "you want first shift or second shift?"

"I don't care," Jasper says, before giving Phil a _look_. "Though I suppose you want first, to keep your evening free so you can do _other things_?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Phil lies. "Coin flip for the daytime shift?"

"Not on your life, you cheater," Jasper grumbles, holding out a closed fist.

"How would I possibly cheat at a coin flip?" Phil asks innocently, but he's holding out his own fist even as he's saying it.

"There are fake coins for that," Hogan mumbles, but Phil and Jasper are already shaking their hands.

Phil throws rock, Jasper throws scissors--so fucking predictable with those scissors--and Phil grins smugly into his coffee. "Have fun with that."

Jasper makes a face and cleans his glasses indignantly. "Whatever. You're the one who's gonna have to follow him around for all the boring daytime tagalong shit, while I get to chill in this sweet mansion."

"Did--did you seriously rock-paper-scissor for me?" Stark asks, hand on his chest, where he's stopped bickering with Pepper. She looks a little bit like she's laughing, but it's hard to tell because she's got one hand covering her mouth, and her poker face is almost as good as Phil's.

"No," Jasper says blandly.

Across the table, Hogan folds up his newspaper and stands up, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

"You ready to go, Tony?" Hogan asks, and Phil considers whether to drain the rest of his still hot coffee or leave it.

Stark looks down at his pajama pants and t-shirt and shrugs. "Ready enough."

"No," Pepper says sternly, and then physically manhandles him towards the door. "Pants, shirt, tie. Suit jacket optional for everything except lunch," she orders.

"Be down in a jiffy, honey," Stark calls towards Hogan, who just rolls his eyes before looking at Phil.

"He do this shit when it's just you two?"

"All the time," Phil lies, but at least it makes Hogan seem relieved.

When Hogan turns back to Jasper to continue their conversation about whatever sport Phil's vigorously ignoring, Phil pulls out his phone from his pocket and types a quick text to Clint.

**_My evenings just freed up on a more regular basis, if you want to do something tonight? I would like to see you again._ **

The response is near-instant, Phil's phone buzzing quietly against his palm.

**_Text, Phil? Really?_ **

Even through the pixels, Clint's teasing tone is conveyed well, and Phil smiles because it wasn't a no--and sure enough, a few seconds later a second text ticks in.

**_I'd love to do something tonight, though. Pick me up at the same time?_ **

**_Will do_** , Phil responds. He's struggling slightly to keep the dorky grin off his face, but Jasper and Hogan don't seem to notice anything, and when Stark walks back in, dressed in more work-appropriate attire, he doesn't say anything either, so Phil figures he's probably successful. 

*

Lunch with Mr. Williams is Phil's favorite point on the day's agenda. In general, business lunches with Stark are always fantastic. The restaurant is fancy, closed so Stark and his party are the only guests present--"for Mr. Stark's convenience and privacy," the maitre d' had explained when they entered--and they will apparently serve both Phil and Hogan whatever they want, with Stark footing the bill. They sit a few tables over from Stark and Williams, trying not to grin into their four-course meal, while Stark attempts to make nice with Williams.

"This," Hogan says, happily biting into another piece of the most delicious bread Phil's ever tasted, "is the best damn thing about working for Tony. The perks."

"It's not bad," Phil admits, wondering at the cost--the menu listed no prices--and wondering how many paychecks he'd need to sacrifice to be able to eat here himself on a regular basis.

They've just gotten back into the car when a message arrives from Pepper on all their phones: **_Tony to mansion, immediately._**

Stark stares at his phone for a while, a vague frown visible over the top of his sunglasses. "That's--probably not good," he says.

"Where to, boss?" Happy asks from the front seat, because as scary as Pepper can be, it's clear he takes his orders directly from Tony before anyone else.

Stark sighs deeply and put-upon, pouts like a child for a few moments, before groaning and leaning his head back. "Fine. Home. Let's see what she wants."

*

When they pull up at Stark mansion, Pepper and Colonel Rhodes are waiting for them in the living room.

Stark doesn't even pause in his step, just spins on his heels, declares, "Nope! Nope, nope!" loudly, and heads straight for the workshop.

"Good to see you again, Colonel Rhodes," says Phil, since they'd briefly met before the press conference that started this whole thing.

Rhodes doesn't seem amused. He nods curtly at Phil. "Agent Coulson." Then he follows Stark down the stairs.

Pepper sighs and gives Phil and Hogan a look.

"What?" Hogan asks. He sounds defensive, and Phil can certainly understand why. Pepper's gaze is sharp and accusing. "I didn't do it," Hogan says.

"Follow them!" Pepper urges. "Someone has to keep an eye on them, and unlike Tony, I'm busy trying to run his company!"

Hogan and Phil look at each other for a moment, before Phil realizes that following Stark means following Tony _into his workshop_ , and he quickly says, "I'll go."

Of course, he thinks as he follows Colonel Rhodes downstairs, his main motivation is his continued concern for Tony Stark's safety and wellbeing. Of course. And not the opportunity to take a closer look around the workshop. That would be unprofessional.

Except Stark's apparently withdrawn Rhodes' access codes, because when Phil catches up to Rhodes, he's standing by the closed workshop door, frowning at the digital keypad. JARVIS sounds downright regretful as he says, "You are not authorized to access this area."

The glass has been tinted over and they can't see into the workshop, but Rhodes still stares at it. "I can't believe he'd do this to me," he says, mouth set in a grim line. "I'm trying to help him."

"Help him?" Phil's unable to completely conceal the surprise in his voice. "I believe Mr. Stark's under the impression that you're doing anything but."

Rhodes sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Well, sort of. I was. I mean--Tony..." He sighs deeply. "Tony's made my job very difficult as of late. But I just found out--I came here to--I was hoping to help with--it's complicated, okay? I just..." He trails off and looks Phil directly in the eye, and he looks deadly serious. "I wouldn't be here, if it wasn't a life or death situation."

Phil takes in Rhodes' look, his tense shoulders and the stiffness of his spine that comes from more than just military training, before making a snap decision and nodding. "All right, I believe you."

Phil's never used the access codes Pepper gave him before, but they work like a charm. The door clicks open, and they both enter the workshop, where Stark's head shoots up from behind a desk. "What the hell? JARVIS, security breach!"

"No security breach detected," JARVIS says. Phil wonders if he's imagining the pleased timbre in JARVIS's voice.

"What do you mean?" Stark asks, flailing. "Rhodey and Agent are in here, in my workshop, when I specifically told you to keep them out, how the hell is that not a security breach?"

"You never specified Agent Coulson in your request for privacy," JARVIS says, and Stark sputters.

"Tony," Rhodes says, striding forward and grabbing his shoulders.

"Don't touch me!"

"Tony," Rhodes presses on, "listen to me, Tony, listen!"

"I don't have time to listen," Stark insists, still trying to wiggle free from Rhodes' grasp. "I am a very busy, very important man. I have things to do--"

"I can see that," Rhodes says dryly. "Obviously, rebuilding the engine of your Cadillac is important, but this might just trump that on your priority list."

"--not interested in anything _you_ have to say anyway," Stark insists.

Phil looks elsewhere and pretends to be invisible, slowly wandering around the workshop. It's riveting, all the bits and pieces he can see. There are several pieces of what looks like repulsor engines lying around, and in a plastic bin on the floor he can see what are definitely plastic mockups of Stark's arc reactor. On one bench sits a boot prototype, with schematics and wires surrounding it. Fascinated, Phil steps closer and glances to the Iron Man armor, proudly on display on its pedestal, to compare. The new boots seem lighter, much smaller, and the exoskeleton has multiple joints, as if the boot is able to collapse in on itself. A new, more portable unit, perhaps?

"Can I help it if you guys move too slow?!" Stark yells from somewhere behind Phil.

"That's not the point!" Rhodes argues.

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is, we're supposed to be working together!"

Phil's fingers itch to touch the boot prototype.

"Oh, like I'm fucking scared of General Ross!" Stark yells.

"You should be," Rhodes insists. "He's up to something, Tony!"

Next to the boot sits more pieces of multi-jointed exoskeleton, and when Phil moves over, he can see something that's starting to look like a glove.

"Is this a new armor prototype?" Phil asks, because he can't help himself. Both Rhodes and Stark stop yelling to look at him. "Is this what you've been working on lately?"

"I, uh--" says Stark and coughs once, apparently having lost his train of thought.

Before any of them can speak, JARVIS interrupts. "Sir, you have another A-1 priority alert coming through. Coordinates are being patched through and uploaded to the suit as we speak."

Stark glares at Rhodes and Phil in turn, then steps towards his armor. "Sorry, duty calls."

Rhodes is starting to look desperate. "Tony, please! Don't go. Please."

Phil realizes suddenly that Rhodes knows something about this, and Stark must have realized it too, because he's giving Rhodes a withering look. "I can handle myself, thanks."

"Mr. Stark, I think it's my obligation to advise you to sit this one out," Phil says, because Colonel Rhodes is a hard man, and anything that can make him look this desperate makes Phil nervous.

Stark doesn't respond, just stretches out his arms and lets his suit assemble around him. "Tony!" Rhodes insists, looking like he's half considering jumping forward and trying to physically restrain his friend.

"See you tomorrow, kids," Stark calls, and then launches out of the garage with a deafening roar of his repulsor engines.

"Well," Rhodes sighs. "Fuck."

"Can I do anything?" Phil asks, because he has to.

Rhodes shakes his head, eyebrows knitted together in an unhappy pinch. "Doubt it. Tony's being a stubborn ass, and General Ross is like a dog with a fucking bone. This is a fucking disaster."

"Tell me what's going on," Phil says, and his tone is soft, but his phrasing is very intentional. Rhodes looks at him for a long moment, hands on his hips, before huffing out an annoyed breath and running both hands across his head.

"You cannot, cannot let anyone know this is coming from me, okay? I shouldn't even have been telling Tony, but you, you work for SHIELD for God's sake, I just…" Rhodes trails off for a moment and huffs out another breath. "General Ross has developed an aerial manned vehicle with Hammer Industries, okay? A single pilot attack craft. Hammer Industries is currently in the process of negotiating for all of Tony's old military contracts, and this thing they're rolling out now is what will probably seal the deal. It's small, it's highly weaponized, and it's designed with black ops and special missions in mind."

Phil swallows and thinks of everything he knows about General Ross. "General Ross is overseeing this?"

Rhodes nods, a grim look on his face. "Yeah. You know him. You know what he's like. The thing is, this training exercise he just authorized? It looked sketchy from the get-go, but I think there's more to it than that. I think he _wanted_ Tony to come out there."

Phil crosses his arms, mind racing. "You think he wants to see the armor in action?"

The grim look on Rhodes's face increases in severity. "I think he _wants_ the armor," he says.

Phil stares incredulously. "You--you really think they'd attack Stark?" he asks, stunned.

Rhodes gnaws on his bottom lip and holds his breath for a moment, before he finally nods. "I think _Ross_ would," he says.

Phil's immediately moving, walking towards the stairs with Rhodes tight on his heels. "I'll take care of it. Thank you, Colonel Rhodes," he says, nodding over his shoulder at Rhodes, who nods back.

"If I'm wrong, and I hope to God I am, this didn't come from me, okay?" Rhodes says as they ascend the stairs.

"I understand," Phil agrees. "It's a very, very serious accusation."

They shake hands at the top of the stairs and Rhodes grips Phil's elbow with his other hand and says, "Hey. Thanks for looking out for him."

"You realize this might damage your friendship?" Phil asks.

Rhodes sighs deeply, and he sounds sad when he says, "Our friendship was already damaged, Agent Coulson."

Phil doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything at all, just nods his farewell to Rhodes before retreating to his room.

"JARVIS, you there?"

"As always, Agent Coulson," JARVIS responds.

"Did you hear everything Rhodes just said?"

"I did indeed, and I have relayed the information to Mr. Stark, but I'm afraid he is being--difficult about it."

Phil groans, because _of course_ Stark is being difficult about it. "Fine," he sighs. "We'll have to go about this in a different way."

He calls Natasha first. "I need an immediate trace on Stark," he orders, voice hard. "And I need a comm link from his suit to SHIELD's satellites."

"If he's in the suit--," Natasha starts, but Phil interrupts her.

"I don't care. Track him anyway."

Natasha makes a noise of agreement, then adds, casually, "You know, if this turns out to be for real, we probably can't contain this to SHIELD. General Ross is too high up."

Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. "I know." He doesn't want to think too closely about it, because the potential for this to become a complete shitstorm is great. "We'll do our best, okay? Right now, let's just focus on making sure Stark lives through the day, okay?"

After he hangs up with Natasha, he calls Nick. He quickly briefs him on the day's events and the information he's gleaned about General Ross and his interest in the Iron Man armor. On the other end of the line, Nick groans.

"Why can't he ever make things easy on us?" Nick asks.

"And yet you want him for the Avengers Initiative," Phil snarks.

"Don't get cute with me," Nick snarls, before taking a deep breath. "What are your thoughts on the situation, Agent Coulson?"

Phil considers for several long moments before weighing his words carefully. "Colonel Rhodes has a good track record as an honorable man and a loyal friend to Stark. I see no reason to doubt him, especially considering the severity of the accusations. My professional recommendation is immediate intervention."

Nick is silent for a few moments. When he speaks again, he sounds grateful. "All right. We'll take care of it, then. Thank you, Agent Coulson," he says.

"Sir," Phil says, because he needs to be a part of this. "I can be on a plane in less than an hour."

" _Thank you_ , Agent Coulson," Nick says again, in his Director tone that leaves little to no room for argument. "I will need you to remain in Malibu since I have no doubt that Stark won't have the patience for an on-site debriefing. You and Jasper handle his return. Anything else to report?"

Phil considers for a moment, and thinks about the exoskeletons he'd found in the workshop.

"Stark's working on something," he says. "I think it's a new armor design."

Nick sounds positively gleeful on the other end of the line. "Excellent, excellent, just what I was hoping to hear! Keep an eye on it, and report back to me if anything changes."

"Will do," Phil says, nodding. "Is there anything else I can do on this end, sir?"

"Kick back. Sit tight," Nick says. "It's gonna be a long night, Agent."

*

After hanging up with Nick, Phil gets his phone out and finds Clint's name in his contacts. It rings for long enough that Phil thinks it might go to voicemail, before Clint's voice is suddenly in his ear, panting lightly. "Phil!" he says, sounding pleased. There's some sort of creaking noise in the background.

"Hey, is this a bad time?"

"Nah," Clint says, grunting like he's struggling with something. "I found a new house and I'm--inspecting the woodwork."

There's a loud crash, and Clint laughs for several seconds, before his voice comes back on the line. "Sorry about that. I've concluded that the wood's rotten, Phil."

Phil smiles, then sighs as he gets to why he's calling in the first place. "I'm really sorry, but I think I might have to cancel tonight."

There's a slight pause on the other end, before the creaking starts again. "That's no problem," Clint says casually, but it sounds forced.

"I want to see you," Phil says, apologetic and a little desperate, "I really do want to, but we have a minor situation here with Stark that I think I need to handle."

"I said it's no problem," Clint says again, but he doesn't sound quite as forced anymore. "I was asked to give a private lesson tonight, anyway."

"Archery lesson?" Phil asks, and Clint makes a noise of agreement.

"Yeah. I teach at this range, Parkview, over in the Valley."

Phil smiles and tries to feel pleased that at least Clint gets to do something he loves tonight. "That sounds good. I'm glad the evening won't be a total waste for you."

"I'd invite you to come by, but--yeah. You're busy. Although--I'll be happy to give you a lesson sometime, if you wanna learn?" Clint says, a little tentatively.

Phil smiles, says, "Expanding my weapons proficiency wouldn't be a bad thing," but he doesn't try to hide that he recognizes the significance of Clint's offer. Archery means something to Clint, and the fact that he's willing to share it with Phil? That _matters_.

"So," Clint says carefully, "Does that mean we can reschedule?"

"Absolutely," Phil says happily. "Want to shoot for this Friday?"

*

Stark remains out of the house for hours. Phil paces and worries. It's late afternoon when Jasper walks in. Phil's in the living room, channel surfing and resisting the urge to listen in on every comm link SHIELD has to find out how things are going with the Stark situation.

"What's going on? Agent Romanoff called me, said something was happening?"

"We're about to save Stark's ass and piss off some high-ranking Army officials in the process," Phil summarizes, pausing to consider Robocop on TV, before deeming it too on-point and changing the channel again. "Where have you been?"

Throwing himself down on the couch next to Phil, Jasper leans back and shakes his head. "Wrapping up some paperwork down at the office. I had to reassign some cases all the way down to Agent Pike, can you believe that? Anyway, it's all settled now. I still can't decide if this assignment is cushy or not. On the one hand..." He trails off and gestures around the living room.

"On the other," Phil agrees, and they nod at each other.

"Stark," they say in unison.

"It's a--unique assignment," Phil allows. "And not just because of the bodyguard detail, either."

"Agent Romanoff says you've been compromised," Jasper says, and Phil can hear the question in his voice.

Phil groans. "So many times over," he admits easily. "Stark has a way of getting under your skin."

"I don't think it was Stark Agent Romanoff had in mind," Jasper teases, and Phil resists the urge to flip him off.

"We're not talking about that," Phil says quickly before he glances at his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes, foot tapping impatiently against the floor. "This is bullshit," Phil mumbles. "Sitting around, waiting."

"What's the matter, Agent Coulson?" Jasper snickers. "I thought you were more patient than this."

"I am," Phil argues, slightly offended. His patience isn't the issue, okay?

"Are you _worried_?" Jasper asks, and he looks increasingly amused.

Phil's frown deepens. "Stark's--not so bad. I'm allowed to be worried."

"So go distract yourself?" Jasper suggests, making a shooing motion with his hands.

Phil doesn't even pretend not to know what he's talking about. "Director Fury gave me orders to stay put," he says, because it's a convenient excuse. "Stark will need to be debriefed when he returns."

 _If he returns_ , a treacherous voice whispers in his ear.

"Fuck Fury," Jasper says dismissively, and Phil thinks that Jasper will probably pay for that remark later. "We both know Fury's a lot more lenient with you and what you do than he is with anyone else. Your shift is technically over, and because I'm a _nice guy_ I'll take care of it. I know you don't actually _want_ to deal with Stark, do you?"

Phil snorts. "Nobody ever _wants_ to deal with Stark."

"Except Ms. Potts."

"Except her," Phil agrees, "but she's extraordinary in every sense of the word. She doesn't count."

"Which," Jasper adds, "speaking of, how long do you think that's gonna take?"

"Never," Phil says firmly. "She's too good for him." Although it's true, Phil thinks privately that Jasper is right. It's only a matter of time.

Jasper shrugs like he knows it's true. "Anyway, I'm sure you've got better things to do, right? More _interesting_ places to be?"

"You're not subtle," Phil says, glaring.

"Wasn't trying to be," Jasper assures him with a shit-eating grin, before pushing at Phil's shoulder. "Get the fuck out of here. I'll call you if Stark gives me any shit, I promise."

"The question isn't whether he'll give you shit, the question is how _much_ shit he'll give you," Phil retorts, but he's still getting to his feet and intentionally doesn't mention Clint or the fact that he's busy tonight. The idea of a _distraction_ of any sort is increasingly tempting, and it's been a while since Phil's had a nice meal, all by himself. "Good luck, Agent Sitwell," he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door.

"Fuck you, you're lucky I like you," Jasper responds.

*

Phil finds a diner that's just the kind he likes; small and quiet, settling down from the dinner rush. His waitress has gray in her hair and crow's feet around her eyes, and Phil doesn't at all think about his cell phone with Clint's number in his contacts, burning a hole in his pocket. He gets a patty melt with extra onion and a side of fries, and closes his eyes happily as he sips his coffee.

Outside, the sun has started to droop heavily in the sky. Phil wonders if Stark is back by now. He wonders what this will mean for the Avengers Initiative. He knows that any tussle with the US Army will almost certainly mean that the World Security Council will have something to say about it--they usually have something to say on most subjects. He knows that they could potentially kill the whole Avengers Initiative, but they could also go the opposite direction--the General Ross route--and take a greater interest in the Iron Man armor than in the man piloting it.

Phil thinks about the ice cream truck and the expression on Stark's face when he'd declared her name to be Vera, and thinks that Nick may want Iron Man, with or without Stark--but Phil doesn't think there _is_ an Iron Man without Stark.

Phil's well aware of what everyone thinks about his interest in Captain America and all things Cap-related, but Phil has always refused to hide it. They'd called him a super soldier, when in reality, it was so much more than that. Captain America was the world's first superhero!

Phil's read enough to piece together a picture of who Steve Rogers was, and he certainly wasn't perfect. For one thing, he started his military career by defrauding his way into several army recruitment stations, and if Dr. Erskine hadn't found him he'd likely have ended up in jail. The unsanctioned mission that earned him his first medal and made him a hero was still unsanctioned, and while the history books try to spin it as acts of tragic bravery, there's no denying that after Bucky Barnes was killed in action, Captain Rogers' behavior grew more reckless.

Phil is loathe to admit it, but he sees a lot of the same fire and heart in Stark, and the more time he spends in Stark's mansion, the more he wonders what he can do to convince Stark that the Avengers Initiative is a good idea. Moreover, he thinks it would be good for _Stark_ , who, more often than not, is doing a really poor job of concealing his issues.

Paying his check and heading out, Phil decides that going back to the mansion is probably the best course of action. If Stark isn't back yet, then maybe he can attempt distract himself with the big screen TVs again? It's not like he has a whole lot of other options at the moment, anyway.

Phil gets in his car, looks at his watch, and then takes a deep breath. Sharp eyes of green, gray, blue, flash in his mind.

"This is a dumb idea," he mutters and flicks a finger at the steering wheel. "This is a _dumb_ idea. The dumbest."

Then he turns on the GPS, plots in his destination, starts the car, and drives towards Parkview Archery Range.

*

Parkview Archery Range is incredibly expensive looking, lawn perfectly manicured and almost unnaturally green in the fading daylight. Phil frowns as he walks through the main building to the outdoor range, wondering briefly if he's made a wrong turn somewhere or if maybe he misheard Clint, because this doesn't at all seem like Clint's style--but then Clint's voice floats to his ears and he follows it to the far end of the range.

Clint's standing at the very end of the archery lanes, nudging the elbow of a young woman with black hair. "I could correct that grip," he's saying. "But you seem to be doing okay, honestly."

"Oh, like you're one to talk?" she says, tone light and teasing. "I've seen your form, circus boy. I don't think I need your advice on form _or_ grip, thank you!"

Phil stays a little to the side where they can't immediately spot him, watching and observing.

"I don't think you'd _need_ that advice even if your grip was flawless," Clint says back, a smirk on his face.

She's got an arrow drawn tight and doesn't look away from her target as she smirks in a way that's eerily reminiscent of an expression Phil's seen on Clint's face on occasion. "Flattery will get you anywhere, Hawkeye," she says, and Clint laughs.

"Katie Kate, if I were but a few years younger...!"

 _Katie Kate_ doesn't respond, just lets her arrow fly and it joins a cluster of arrows already embedded in the bullseye of her target. It looks effortless, and when Clint whoops in clear admiration, Phil feels a stab of something that's almost like jealousy in his chest.

"Please," Kate says, rolling her eyes. "How many was that?"

"Eleven," Clint says proudly, moving over a step to his own lane. "Honestly, I feel bad taking money for this. I really do."

"Don't," she responds as she nocks and draws again. "It keeps my Dad off my back, and I have fun, so whatever."

Clint snorts, and draws his own bow. "I get paid for dicking around for hours."

"And I'm completely mystified as to why you're complaining about it," Kate says sensibly, and they both fire arrows at the same time. Both hit bullseye again. They descend into silence, nocking and drawing for a little while.

"Hey Clint," Kate says casually, and Clint pauses in the middle of pulling up a new arrow. "Do you know the creepy suit who's been staring at us for the last few minutes?"

Phil's face heats up and he tries to will it away, but it's a lost cause when Clint says, without even looking, "Oh, yeah, that's Phil. I cancelled our date to give you this lesson, so he's probably here to fight you for my honor," even though that's not really what happened!

"Hi Phil," Kate says, finally turning to look at him. "Put 'em up. I'll take you with one hand tied behind my back."

That makes Clint snort. "I'm not sure about that." He chuckles. "Though if anyone could, it'd be you, Katie."

"Anything for your honor, Barton," she says with a wink, and Phil feels vaguely uncomfortable at their easy banter. She's younger than Phil first thought, late teens maybe at most, and something stirs in the back of his mind.

"Ms. Bishop," he says, realizing. "What brings you all the way to California?"

"Gross," she says in return instead of answering Phil's question, and it's a decent deflection. "You keeping tabs on me?"

Phil smiles blandly and doesn't mention that she's not exactly invisible. Although she's rarely the main focus of attention, New York based publishing magnate Derek Bishop's cover of Forbes Magazine _did_ feature his only daughter at his side.

"Suit?" he asks instead, expression perfectly innocent, because two can play at that game.

She looks unimpressed. "That's Dolce. You're not meeting _Clint_ in Dolce unless you're a suit."

"Thanks," Clint mutters sarcastically from where he's started packing up his bow. "I think that's enough fun for today, Katie. It's getting dark anyway. I'll catch you next week, yeah?"

"Whatever," she says airily, turning to pull off her arm guard.

"Say hi to your dad for me," Clint says, grabbing his bow case and waving at her before walking to Phil. "So," he says, smiling--shyly? "Fancy meeting you here."

"How long did you know I was standing there?" Phil asks instead. He's starting to wonder if he's losing his touch.

Clint laughs at him as they walk towards the parking lot. "Saw you when you came in; you kind of stick out. This place is rich, but it ain't so rich that people go to the range in suits."

Phil looks down at his suit--it's Dolce, yes, what of it?--and wishes he'd thought to change once Jasper had taken over Stark-sitting duties for the evening. "I suppose." He looks briefly over his shoulder at Kate, where she's still packing up her bow and clearly casting sly looks at them. "Kate Bishop, hm?"

"Yeah, I guess her dad sort of put her on the map," Clint says, shifting his bow case a little. "He pays me to give her archery lessons, but honestly she doesn't need it. Kid's a natural."

"So it would seem," Phil comments, and Clint gets an incredulous look on his face as they pass through the building.

"Wait, wait," he says, holding out a hand, palm towards Phil. "Wait--are you jealous?"

"No," Phil denies.

"She's like _ten_ years old!" Clint says, a little too loudly and far too amused for Phil's liking. "She's a _baby_! This is hilarious!"

"I am not jealous," Phil tries assuring him, because deadpan denial is better than mumbling _Shut up_ , like he really wants to.

Clint throws his head back and laughs, and Phil waits patiently until he's done. He'd found Clint's car in the parking lot easily and had parked next to him, so they come to a stop by their cars, Clint still chuckling.

"So what are you doing here?" Clint asks eventually, still grinning and chuckling a little.

Phil feels suddenly nervous, and sticks his hands in his pockets so he won't fidget. "I just--my plans changed and I wanted to see if you maybe wanted to do... something," he finishes lamely.

Clint's smile seems to grow, and something in his expression changes. It's a different sort of happy that reaches all the way into those intense eyes of his, and Phil wants to reach out and touch the dimples on his cheeks. "I'd really love to," Clint says. "Though I do have to go pick up Lorin and get him to bed. Marley's watching him for me." His smile falters just the tiniest bit and he looks a little insecure. "You could--you could join us? If you wanted? We could grab something to eat after he's down for the night?"

Phil feels something suspiciously like butterflies in his stomach, because this is big. This is Clint, inviting him into his space. This is Clint, inviting him into his _home_. Phil barely manages to keep his nerves under control as he nods, his smile mirroring Clint's. "I'd love that."

Clint fumbles with his bow case a little, and they both chuckle nervously. "Great," Clint says, gesturing at his car. "Great, I'll, uh--I'll see you there?"

"Yeah," Phil replies, feeling like a teenager again. "See you there."

He climbs into his car and watches as Clint puts his bow case in the trunk and pulls out of the parking lot, before bopping his forehead gently on the steering wheel several times. "Stupid idea," he chides himself just one more time.

When he raises his head again, he sees Kate standing in front of his car, looking at him with an amused expression on her face. With as much dignity as he can muster, reminding himself that he's a Very Serious and Dangerous Agent of SHIELD, Phil gives her a tight smile and a wave, and she bursts out laughing at him before she walks away.

Phil sighs and starts his car.

"Great. Perfect."

*

When Phil makes it back to Clint's house he's already picked Lorin up from Marley's, and Phil catches up with them both at Clint's doorstep. Lorin's hanging on Clint's shoulder, head down and eyelids drooping.

"Hey," Clint says as he unlocks the door, looking at Phil over the top of Lorin's head, and there's warmth in his gaze.

"Hey yourself," Phil says, then tentatively following Clint into his house, removing his shoes when Clint does and setting them on the shoe rack by the door. Much like Clint's car, the interior of the house is completely different from the outside, modern furniture and clean walls, broken up by the bright splash of Lorin's toys spread around. Phil peers curiously around the living room as he cautiously steps forward.

"Hi Phil. Did you bring me more ice cream?" Lorin asks sleepily from his perch on Clint's arm, and Clint laughs warmly.

"Phil can't always bring you ice cream, bud," Clint laughs.

Phil feels his face heat up a little and he winces. "Sorry, I may have… started some unfortunate associations?"

"Relax, it's fine." Clint smiles at him, then addresses Lorin again. "You get more than enough ice cream, you don't need more every time we see Phil."

"But I _like_ ice cream. He should _always_ bring ice cream!" Lorin says, half whine, half yawn, and it's so stinking adorable, Phil's got one hand half reaching out to smooth back a tangle of blond hair on his forehead before he realizes what he's doing and snatches his hand back.

Thankfully, Clint just gives him a look that's a mix of amusement and fondness as he shifts Lorin a little on his arm. "I'm gonna go put him to bed real fast," he says, gesturing towards the stairs. "He's clearly done for the day. You just make yourself at home. You know. Hang out."

Phil manages a weak smile in return, feeling slightly nervous and awkward as Clint disappears upstairs with Lorin. While they're gone, Phil wanders the living room a little, and considers his life choices, because _what is he doing here?_ He finds the TV remote easily enough and he flips through a few channels before turning the set off again and resuming his slow pacing.

Clint's voice floats down from upstairs then, muffled and hushed, and Phil can't help himself, he drifts more than walks upstairs, listening. He stops in the doorway of Lorin's room, smiling at the sight that greets him. Lorin's room is clearly the master bedroom of the house, and Phil's heart does the weirdest, little flip in his chest at the idea that Clint gave his son the bigger bedroom. The room is softly lit by a lamp shaped like a football sitting on a dresser in a corner of the room. The walls are decorated with vinyl decals of race cars, and the floor is a virtual minefield of toys. Lorin's in bed, and looking mighty unhappy about it.

"...been a long day," Clint says, sitting on the edge of Lorin's bed, as Lorin rubs his eyes and whines softly. "Just try to go to sleep, okay?"

"No," Lorin sulks. "Story."

"Lorin, buddy, you're so tired, I know you can just go to sleep. Daddy's got a guest waiting downstairs, you know? You like Phil, right?"

"Yeah," Lorin says, and something clenches in Phil's chest.

"Well, we can't keep Phil waiting for too long, that would be rude, and we don't want to be rude. Especially not to people we like, right?"

"It's okay," Phil interjects, and Clint's head turns in surprise. "Take your time."

"Phil," Lorin mumbles, eyes blank and dark as he looks at him over the top of his blanket. "Will you help Daddy read me a story?"

Phil feels awkward about it, but then Clint gives him a wry smile, like _What can you do?_ and says, "Would you deny that face, Phil? That sad, sad face?"

Even if Phil wasn't a highly skilled agent, he'd still be able to easily see how Clint nudges Lorin's side conspiratorially right before Lorin sticks out his lower lip at him and turns the corners of his mouth down.

"Low blow, Barton," he mumbles, but there's pleasant warmth spreading from the center of his body out to all his limbs.

"I have no shame," Clint agrees, picking up a book from the floor and holding it out to Phil.

"All right," Phil says, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar as he walks over and takes the book from Clint. Clint stares openly at the newly exposed V at the base of Phil's throat for a moment and it makes Phil's face want to do weird things. He has to smother down his expression because he doesn't know what kind of emotions he'll project if he lets it through, and instead looks down at the book, smiling when he sees it's _Where The Wild Things Are_.

"It's a classic," Clint says with a smile, and then moves over so Phil can sit down at the edge of Lorin's bed.

Though it isn't exactly what Phil had planned, his evening's not going so badly, he thinks.

*

Unsurprisingly, it only takes a couple of minutes before Lorin's sound asleep, and Phil and Clint can both tiptoe out of his room. At the top of the stairs, Phil stops and turns to Clint, who pulls Lorin's door shut before looking at Phil.

"Sorry about that," Clint says with a rueful grin. "I'm sure bedtime stories for someone else's kid isn't at the top of your list of fun things to do."

"No, it's okay," Phil assures him. "It was--nice." _Nice_ is possibly the understatement of the century as Phil feels warm and happy in a way he can't recall feeling in years, but it's the only way he knows how to express himself that doesn't leave him completely paralyzed with fear.

Still, it's possible that Clint understands, because something changes in his eyes and his expression softens. Phil suddenly becomes painfully aware of how close they're standing and heat blossoms up his neck.

"I'm glad. I don't just let anyone read my kid bedtime stories, you know," Clint says, and he sounds--almost hopeful?

Phil doesn't quite know what to say in return. He's having trouble controlling his breathing.

They don't so much lean towards each other as crash together, Clint's fists already gripping Phil's suit jacket and pulling it from his shoulders by the time their lips meet.

Phil's heart stutters and then starts thundering in his chest. Clint's lips are soft and warm, and his stubble drags against Phil's chin. Clint's tongue darts out immediately and slides wetly against his in a way that makes Phil flush all over, and he presses Clint up against the wall, wants to crawl into Clint's body and disappear there.

His hands have been clutching at Clint's waist but their movement gets restricted when Clint manages to get Phil's jacket down to his elbows, and they stumble a little, bumping into the wall with a muted thump. "Shh," Clint mumbles against Phil's lips, "shh," and Phil realizes he's making needy little whimpers into their kisses, sounds he didn't even know he was capable of making. Breaking the kiss, Clint jerks his head towards his room and leads Phil there, pulling his jacket off along the way and leaving it on the floor.

Once the door's closed, Clint's mouth finds Phil's again, and Phil gasps out loud, no longer quite as mindful of the volume now that they've got two closed doors and a hallway between them and Lorin's room.

"Jesus," Clint mutters, grabbing at Phil's tie with both hands and pulling it free from around his neck before starting in on Phil's shirt.

Phil knows he's wearing more layers than Clint and is content to continue kissing him, running his hands up and down Clint's firm biceps, the strong muscles of his shoulders and back, the hard cut of his abs, while Clint's fighting with his buttons. It's not until Clint finally gets the last button open and slides Phil's shirt off his body with a relieved groan that Phil pulls at Clint's own t-shirt. Clint laughs as he pulls it up and over his head, and Phil mirrors the motion with his undershirt.

Moving back just enough to see, Phil stupidly feels his mouth run dry at the sight of Clint's bare chest. The man is _fit_ , and Phil doesn't even know where to begin to touch all that skin, bared and on display for him. When he drags his eyes back up to Clint's face, he finds that Clint's own stare is boring into his chest, and there's a heat behind Clint's gaze that just floors Phil. Clint's looking at him with such obvious want that Phil's knees feel wobbly.

"Jesus," Clint mutters again, and Phil swallows heavily. Clint's eyes dart up to the bob of Phil's Adam's apple, and then suddenly Clint's on him, arms wrapped tightly around him, mouth attached to his throat and doing his best to suck bruises into his skin. "So fucking hot," Clint grunts, and Phil can't help it, he wedges both hands between their bodies so he can tug at Clint's jeans, tear at the button fly and get a hand down into his boxers.

His fingers close around Clint's erection and Clint groans loudly then, the vibration of it tingling against Phil's neck. They stumble together, and barely manage to land in a heap on Clint's twin bed instead of on the floor. The movement brings Clint's thigh directly in between Phil's legs, and his skin feels overheated and sensitive as he can't help but push himself closer, grinding his own erection against Clint's body.

"Clint," Phil breathes, one hand tugging at Clint's hair to get him to ease up on his assault on Phil's throat. "Clint, I--I have--I can't go to work with hickeys!"

Clint's only answer is another groan, and then he starts wiggling around, helping Phil to push his jeans and underwear down and off while doing his best to never let his lips leave Phil's skin. Once Clint's naked, he brings one callused hand up to drag heavily across Phil's nipples, and Phil gasps and moans and struggles to keep his eyes open. It gets easier when Clint finally stops molesting his throat in order to sit up and start unbuttoning Phil's pants. It lets Phil look to his heart's content, and Clint's cock, hard and drooling lightly and jutting out from his body, makes Phil's mouth water. It's an exercise in restraint to not push Clint back and suck his cock into his mouth right then and there.

As soon as he's free of his pants, Phil tries to push back up, desperate to know Clint's taste, but Clint beats him to it. Phil's only barely sat upright when Clint descends on him, mouth closing around his cock and immediately sucking hard. "Fuck!" Phil exclaims loudly in surprise, falling back on the bed, then catching himself and hurriedly slapping a hand over his mouth.

There's a sharp puff of breath at his crotch, and Clint's shoulders shake with laughter, but he never stops sucking. His tongue presses against the underside of Phil's shaft, and Phil has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his bottom lip in order to not come immediately. "Clint," he says warningly. " _Clint._ "

Clint reaches to the side and grabs one of Phil's hands, untangles his fingers from where they're knotted in the covers, and then very deliberately puts their joined hands on his own head, bobbing it up and down. Phil's entire torso _burns_ with it as he understands. Closing his fingers and gripping Clint's hair hard, Phil marvels at the trust he's being shown, at the slick-wet feel of Clint's lips around him and Clint's tongue against him, and fuck--Phil can't recall being this on edge since he was a teenager.

Drool and precome ease the way and run out the corners of Clint's mouth as Phil groans in a way he feels down to his balls and thrusts--and Clint just _takes_ it. His throat seems to just open up for Phil as his eyes close in obvious contentment and he lets Phil fuck his mouth. It's so hot that Phil's feeling feverish and delirious with how turned on he is. His eyes sting, but he can't close them, can barely blink as he props himself up on one elbow, continues to grip Clint's hair with the other hand, and watches the length of his cock disappear into Clint's mouth, over and over. Clint moans then, a harsh sound that gets abruptly cut off on Phil's next thrust upwards, but it's still got time to send vibrations racing through his crotch.

"I'm gonna come," Phil warns, loosening his grip on Clint's hair, but then Clint's hand is covering his again. Lacing their fingers together, Clint hangs on tight and holds Phil's hand in place, and Phil's heart beats so hard in his chest it _hurts_. Clint's body is writhing lightly on the bed, hips thrusting against the mattress, and _fuck_ , Phil might never be the same again, nothing will ever come even close to this, nothing will ever top this--

When Phil comes, he squeezes his eyes shut and barely even recognizes himself and the sound he makes--deep and rumbling. Clint swallows every drop.

Afterwards, Phil's eyes come open again slowly. He feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him and like he could just drop off to sleep right then and there, but he fights the lethargy that's trying to settle over him. As soon as Clint pulls off his softening cock, licking along the shaft and then licking his lips with little, satisfied noises that makes Phil's toes tingle, Phil grabs Clint and pulls him up for a kiss. He licks the taste of himself from Clint's mouth, feeling drained and euphoric and breathless and loving it.

"You're a wonder," he says.

Clint laughs, open and happy, before rubbing his dick against Phil's hip with intent. "I try," he says. His voice is raw from cocksucking and his lips are swollen, and Phil knows that if he were physically capable of it, he would already be hard again.

"What do you want?" he asks, reaching down to grasp Clint's cock and tugging on it a few times, firm but teasing. "What can I do for you, Clint? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to suck you? Do you want to fuck me?" Clint kisses him then, whimpers into his mouth, but Phil doesn't let him go. "Tell me what you want."

Pulling away from the kiss, Clint settles one hand at the nape of Phil's neck and grasps it tightly. "Damn," he breathes, "never figured you for the dirty talking type."

"I'm not," Phil mumbles back, pressing kisses along Clint's well-defined jawline towards his ear. "Not really. Guess you just bring it out in me."

"Aren't I special?" Clint gasps out, then pushes gently at Phil's shoulder. "Turn over for me?"

Obliging, Phil shifts around with Clint on the small bed and turns over. Clint fumbles in the nightstand briefly and comes back up with lube. Resting his head on his forearms, Phil expects Clint's fingers between his cheeks and is instead surprised when Clint tugs at his hips, pushing him down into the mattress and pushing a slick cock in between his thighs.

Lowering the rest of his body down on top of Phil's and leaning one elbow down on each side of Phil's shoulders, Clint groans into the nape of Phil's neck and starts thrusting. The weight of Clint at his back, the slick-slide of his cock between Phil's thighs, the puffs of air against his sweaty skin, it all feels amazing. Clenching his thighs together as best he can and trying to create a tight space for Clint's cock to slide through, Phil wishes he could see Clint's face where it's pressed against his neck. Clint moves a little, breathes heavily into Phil's ear, and licks a bead of sweat from his shoulder.

"God, Phil--Phil," Clint groans, voice cracked and rasping, and then he shudders and grunts as he comes between Phil's thighs. His hands tighten to the point of pain where they're gripping Phil's biceps, and Phil loves every second of it.

*

Later, Phil's still right on top of the wet spot, but he doesn't really mind. He's been in worse situations. Clint's wedged sideways between him and the wall, one leg thrown over Phil's ass and dangling out over the edge of the bed as he leans up on one elbow.

"So...," Clint says, "is it too much of a cliche to say that I don't normally do this kind of thing?"

"No," Phil smiles. "I don't usually, uh, I don't usually do this kind of thing, either."

"I mean, with Lorin and all," Clint explains.

"I'm on assignment," Phil explains.

Then they both chuckle together, and Phil squeezes one hand in between them to find Clint's, lacing their fingers together.

"I had a massive crush on Captain America when I was a kid," Phil blurts out, and Clint stares. "My embarrassing story," Phil clarifies. "For our first date. That qualifies, right? My gigantic crush on Captain America?"

Clint's lips twitch. "Depends. How gigantic are we talking?"

"Huge," Phil says, nodding. "Massive. Life-sized. We're talking action figures, posters on the wall. I even had red, white and blue bed sheets. I've dressed up as Captain America for Halloween probably like twelve times."

"Wow," Clint laughs, and Phil nods.

"Wow," he agrees.

"How old were you when you finally stopped dressing as him for Halloween?" Clint asks.

"Stopped?" Phil jokes, and Clint has to put his face down to snort against Phil's shoulder. "I've--toned it down since."

"Toned it down?" Clint laughs. "As opposed to gotten over it? It's still going?"

"Toned down!" Phil repeats, but they're still chuckling together. "I've still got some memorabilia. Trading cards. That kind of thing."

He's also got a vested interest in the continued search for Captain America's body, but that would be one of those things he's not allowed to tell Clint about.

They settle into a comfortable silence, looking at each other and grinning like idiots.

"I like you," Clint says suddenly, and Phil's grin grows, he can't help it.

"I like you too," he replies, then adds, apologetically, "I do have to go home tonight, though. I go back on duty early tomorrow morning."

"I'm not worried about it," Clint assures him. "I'll see you again, I'm sure. I mean, if you want?"

Phil smiles and thinks of _Where The Wild Things Are_ and Clint's warm smile and his intense eyes and Lorin's giggle as he slurps Icelandic fruit bars and--and Phil definitely _wants_.

"Thank you," he blurts out.

Clint wrinkles his nose, like he doesn't know whether to feel flattered or offended. "Shit, I don't think I've ever gotten thanked for sex before."

Rolling his eyes Phil clarifies, "Not for the sex, I--well, not _just_ for the sex. I just, I mean..." He clears his throat awkwardly. "Thank you for trusting me, for letting me into your life--into your _son's_ life, despite--everything."

 _Despite SHIELD_ , goes unsaid.

Clint tenses up a little and sniffs once like it's no big deal, even though they both know it is, and bites Phil's shoulder lightly. "Whatever, I didn't sleep with SHIELD. I don't trust SHIELD," Clint says, "I trust you. There's a difference."

Phil doesn't point out that he's actually never made much of a distinction in the past--but he thinks that for Clint, he might be willing to.


	5. Chapter 5

Saying goodnight to Clint is harder than Phil anticipated. He feels oddly cold as he gets back into his car, even in the comfortable California night, and more than anything he just wants to crawl back under the covers with Clint and stay there on his cramped, little bed--wet spot or no. Clint watches him from the doorway with a little smile on his face, barely visible in the dark, that makes Phil's heart do funny things in his chest. He can't help but wave like a big dork as he pulls away from the curb, but he takes comfort in the fact that Clint just waves back, like he can't help it either.

When he gets back to the mansion, the lights are dim and he doesn't immediately find anyone. It's not until he goes to the back media room that he finds Jasper, looking exhausted in front of the extra security camera feeds. "Is Stark still gone?"

"Nah, he's in the workshop," Jasper says on a deep sigh, without looking up.

Phil leans over to look at the screens. Everything looks normal. "How'd things go tonight?"

Jasper runs a tired hand across his face. "Well, Stark is in one piece, if that's what you're asking. We managed to intercept an attack, but as it stands right now we can't prove that General Ross was behind it. At best we could point fingers at him for an unsafe training exercise, but considering it's General Ross…"

Jasper trails off and Phil nods. General Ross will see little to no consequences unless they can actually prove he intended to take control of the Iron Man armor.

"And the debrief?"

"Got it on tape," Jasper says, gesturing towards a tablet lying on the desk in front of him. "You can review later if you want."

"That's okay, I trust you," Phil says, because it's true, but Jasper grins like it's the best thing he's heard all year. Then his grin suddenly turns dirty, and he leans back in his chair and pushes his glasses up his nose as his eyes zero in on a spot on Phil's neck.

"So, how was your evening, Agent Coulson?"

Phil's hand almost flies up towards his neck, where Clint had attached his mouth earlier-- _almost_. His self-discipline is good enough that he doesn't actually do it, but Jasper's a trained SHIELD agent, and he sees the slight twitch of Phil's hand and snickers.

"So when am I gonna meet this guy, huh?"

"I swear, there's something in the water, causing everyone to believe my personal life exists solely for their own entertainment," Phil says with a frown.

"Come on, I'm just trying to protect you," Jasper wheedles. "Make sure this guy's good enough for you, you know?"

"Yes, because I have such a track record of not being able to take care of myself," Phil deadpans.

"But I don't know anything about this guy!"

Phil agrees, "Yes, and I intend to keep it that way. Good night, Agent Sitwell."

"At _least_ tell me if you got laid, Phil! Come on! You don't even have to _say_ anything," Jasper calls after him as he leaves. "Just blink once for yes, twice for no!"

Phil resists the urge to flip him off and heads down to the workshop.

*

Stark is bent over one of his desks, but when Phil enters his head snaps up and he spins around on his chair.

"Agent," he greets Phil, sounding slightly wary. Phil supposes finding out you have enemies in higher places than you thought would do that to a guy.

"Mr. Stark," Phil says, taking care to keep his tone neutral. Tony looks vaguely alarmed; there's a tension at the corner of his eyes, and the corner of his mouth is twitching a little, like he's fighting to keep calm. On the desk behind him, he's got a microscope, and there are several devices that resemble batteries lined up next to it.

"Branching out into biology?" Phil tries, hoping to break the ice.

"I love learning," Stark says, completely devoid of any inflection. "Where have you been? Not that I don't love dealing with your lackey, but he just doesn't project the levels of contempt you do. It's not the same."

"I was doing some stuff," Phil evades. "And Agent Sitwell is not my 'lackey,' please refrain from referring to him as such again."

Stark sniffs once and narrows his eyes a little, before turning back to his table. "Whatever. Thanks for the save today. I'm sure you'll be happy to know the armor only has some surface damage. I should have it up and running again by tomorrow. Tell your superiors not to have a cow."

Phil reels a little from the hurt that radiates from Stark's voice.

"With all due respect, Mr. Stark, my assignment is to protect _you_ ," Phil says. "If SHIELD thought Iron Man needed protecting, we wouldn't let you out by yourself in the suit."

"Oh, please," Stark scoffs. "Your job is to _woo_ me. You protect me because you can't operate Iron Man without me."

Phil carefully doesn't think about all the things Nick isn't telling him on a daily basis.

"I protect you because you have value," he says, then decides to go against his initial instinct--damn this emotional compromise--and adds, "and I meant what I said when I first arrived here. You have things to offer, and not just to SHIELD, Mr. Stark."

From where he's standing, Phil can only see Stark's shoulders and back, but the change in body language is obvious. Stark's shoulders go still, and there's clear tension settling into the long lines of his back.

For a moment, Phil's not sure what to say. He's bad at dealing with feelings even on a good day, and dealing with _Stark's_ feelings, especially where his thinly veiled superiority-inferiority hero complex is concerned, is just a little bit out of his depth. Doubly so because regardless of his personal opinion--and that's the bitch of the matter, too--he knows that Stark's right. SHIELD's main interest has been and always will be the Iron Man armor over the genius piloting it, and fuck--Phil might _kill_ Nick for giving him this detail.

"You do good things," Phil eventually gets out, thinking about the medical research, the charities and the energy research Stark Industries has funded.

"Of course I do, I'm Iron Man," Stark says, because that's what he hears. Naturally.

Phil sighs and heads back towards the stairs. "Good night, Mr. Stark," he says, but something causes him to pause in the doorway. Phil looks at Stark, a solitary figure hunched over his desk in the workshop, illuminated mostly by his holographic screens, and for a moment he looks incredibly lonely. Phil thinks about Obadiah Stane, and what he knows about Howard Stark, and thinks that Stark's been under fire since way before he became Iron Man.

In the future, he'll blame his words on his emotional compromise, but Phil still says, as he leaves, "For what it's worth, Mr. Stark? Personally I have no interest in the Iron Man armor whatsoever, unless you're the one piloting it."

*

Phil's only a little embarrassed to realize that the first thought he has when he wakes up in the morning, half-formed and muddled by sleep, is _Clint_.

He's got one hand on the nightstand, fingers fumbling for his phone, before he wakes up enough to realize he's a grown man with better self-control than that, and decides he can wait to contact Clint during his lunch break. 

When he walks into the kitchen to grab breakfast, Hogan and Pepper are both missing, but Jasper and Stark are debating breakfast cereals. When they see him coming, Jasper smirks at him, but before he can say anything, Stark reaches out and taps his arm lightly. "Hey, uh--Other Agent, would you mind giving me a moment with Agent? We have things to discuss."

Phil frowns. Jasper frowns. Stark looks nonchalant.

They remain in a three-way staring contest for a few moments, before Phil finally gives in. Sighing, he gives Jasper a tiny nod, and Jasper nods back before leaving the table.

Once he's out of earshot, Stark stands up, hands in his pocket, and walks over to Phil with what's clearly feigned innocence. Suspicious, Phil narrows his eyes at Stark. "What'd you do?"

Stark clears his throat, but instead of deflecting, he says, "Before you freak out, I just want you to know that my intentions were good, okay? And this could be nothing. In fact, it probably _is_ nothing, that's why I sent away Thing Two, so this doesn't have to like, become a big deal, since I'm sure it's really not. I just felt it was something you should probably look at?"

A slightly unsettling feeling creeps into Phil's veins, and he watches in silence as Stark pulls out one of his little gadgets and uses it to project a holographic image in the middle of the room. "Okay, so, I swear, I was just trying to look out for you," Stark warns again.

"Why does everyone think I need other people to look out for me?" Phil questions, because it's truly becoming baffling.

Stark goes on without responding, bringing up a mug shot of a man that looks vaguely familiar. It's been cropped to exclude his name, but it still only takes Phil a split second to realize why he looks so familiar: this man's resemblance to Clint is unmistakable. He's younger than Clint is now, with darker hair, and is a lot skinnier--but it's the same intense eyes, the same cheekbones and jawline, same nose. "Is this Barney Barton?" Phil asks, frowning. "He was killed some years back, wasn't he?"

Stark winces, flicks his fingers, and the screen changes to what looks like a scan of a hardcopy page from Barney Barton's autopsy report. The relevant words have been enhanced by JARVIS, but it's not the words that draw Phil's eye; it's the photo that's clipped to the corner.

"I just wanted to look," Stark says, sounding slightly helpless next to Phil. "I mean, Clint's name came up in conjunction with this guy and I just thought, you know, what's the harm in me looking, and--"

"Did they bring him in for questioning?" Phil asks. "Is his name on those records anywhere?"

Stark pauses. "No. No, it's not. The uh, the case was closed fairly quickly. I got the guy's entire record here, and it's not--pretty."

Phil swipes at the image to go back to Barney's mug shot, and takes in the dark circles under his eyes, the tendons visible in his neck, the dirt smeared along his forehead. "Drugs?"

"Probably," Stark admits. "Possession, robbery, assault, more robbery, more possession... He's also got a couple of dropped charges of distribution and was questioned in a homicide case, but never charged."

Phil goes back to the autopsy report and looks at the photo again, reads the words on the page, and swallows. "They didn't bother pursuing this. Despite..."

"Despite what it looks like," Stark finishes for him. "Probably considered him just some homeless small-time criminal, is my guess, instead of a--instead of a human being." Stark's voice softens and he sounds genuinely sympathetic now. "Agent, I really was just trying to help," he says faintly.

For a moment, Phil considers protesting what he's seeing, what he's reading. A thousand excuses are on the tip of his tongue--this doesn't have to mean anything, this could mean a lot of things, this might not even be accurate--but he damn well knows better. The photo in the corner just confirms what the words are telling him.

Barney Barton's autopsy report declares cause of death to be penetrating trauma to the heart at three separate points, with three unspecified objects--thin and cylindrical in shape.

Phil thinks about Clint, his skill with a bow, and his self-designed, wicked broadheads. He wonders if Clint has had other designs created in the past, because even small target point arrowheads can be deadly--and then Phil has to look away. He's not hungry anymore.

"Thanks, Stark," he says, which makes Stark's face scrunch up in a terrible grimace as he closes the holographic image.

"Yeah," Stark says sarcastically. "I totally did you a solid."

Phil doesn't have it in him to respond as he walks out of the room, and he barely manages to keep any potential emotions off his face as he finds Jasper in the living room.

"Cover for me, I need to do some stuff," he says.

Maybe it's the tone of Phil's voice, or maybe his face is not as carefully guarded as he thinks it is, but Jasper doesn't protest in any way. He just stands up and nods, says, "You got it."

At least it makes Phil feel confident that he made the right choice in requesting Jasper as his second for this assignment. It's about the only thing he feels confident about right now.

*

Phil spends most of the morning locked up in his room, going over every piece of information he can find surrounding Barney Barton's life and death. The NYPD investigation is riddled with sloppy notes and half-assed conclusions, further supporting Stark's theory. Seems nobody really cared much about a small-time repeat offender. It's still a shame; Phil can think of a lot worse things than Barney Barton's rap sheet, despite its length.

The DMV lists Clint's address at the time as being in New York City, in Bed-Stuy, and Phil is still trying to process the fact that Clint would lie to him about that. He remembers the way Clint's expression had fallen when he first saw Stark in the ice cream truck, the defiance in his voice, and he thinks that if Clint hadn't wanted to talk about Barney, he would have just told Phil as much. Lying about his whereabouts at the time of Barney's death doesn't look good, and Phil's struggling to come up with alternate theories for _why_?

 _People lie because they have something to hide_ , a voice whispers in his ear. Phil knows. He's been at this job long enough, he definitely know this. But it's a hard truth to swallow given the circumstances.

A sweep of SHIELD's own files reveals nothing about Barney Barton. His name doesn't come up anywhere, and neither does Clint's. Whatever Barney Barton came to SHIELD about apparently wasn't important enough for them to even take a preliminary report. His known associates are nothing but a list of names that hold very little weight in Phil's mind; small time mobsters and hustlers.

Phil clenches his teeth and thinks about how SHIELD prioritizes their threats, and wonders if things would have been different if SHIELD had been a different agency, with different priorities.

Phil looks at the information in front of him, remembers Clint's face as he said, "I wasn't even living in New York at the time," and he keeps coming back to the same question, over and over again: _Why?_ Why the lie? If Clint didn't do it, why lie? And if Clint _did_ do it--why?

Phil tries to consider Clint, tries to consider those intense eyes watching his brother fall, and before he can think too hard about it, admits--yes. Clint could be a killer. Phil's been on the job for too long, he knows almost _anyone_ could be a killer if pushed hard enough, if pushed far enough. What could possibly have pushed Clint?

Phil shakes his head. He doesn't want to believe it. Last night he held Clint and felt Clint's hands on his body and saw his warm smile as they read _Where The Wild Things Are_ to Clint's son, and Phil _doesn't_ want to believe it.

Phil sighs. He needs to know more. He needs to dig deeper.

*

Phil texts Clint just after lunch.

**_Free tonight?_ **

**_Sorry, not tonight_** , comes the response, followed by a **_:(. Going straight from work to archery club then gotta spend some time with my little monster._**

Phil swallows and pretends he doesn't feel like absolute scum as he texts back, **_Tomorrow maybe?_**

**_Yeah, tomorrow should work, we'll talk later._ **

Phil breathes evenly, then finds Natasha's name in his contacts. She picks up on the second ring.

"Agent Romanoff. Up for some fun?" he asks her, a lot more flippantly than he feels.

She doesn't sound convinced. "Kids?"

"No kids," Phil promises. "Pinky swear."

She's silent for a few moments, considering, calculating, then she says, "Be there in 45."

She meets Phil in an alley two blocks over from Clint's house, wearing her catsuit and a scowl. "I'm still not forgiving you for the kid duty," she informs him.

Phil holds out a bar of her favorite Belgian chocolate--the kind he knows she just ran out of and won't be able to get more of for months. "How 'bout now?"

Natasha narrows her eyes minutely at him, a quick look flickering down to the bar and back up again. Then she delicately plucks it from his hand with gloved fingers and magicks it away somewhere on her person. Phil's impressed. He's also willing to bet it won't even be melted when it resurfaces.

"We'll see," Natasha says, but one corner of her mouth is tilting upwards. "So what are we doing?"

Phil considers. "Reconnaissance."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "I know what neighborhood we're in."

"I'm sure you do, Agent Romanoff."

"And I'm sure by reconnaissance you mean breaking and entering and creeping on your boyfriend?"

"I thought you had money on Stark for that position," Phil says. Deflecting, of course. Natasha sees right through it as always.

"Please," she says, scoffing. Then, softer, "What's really going on, Phil? What are we looking for here?"

It's a thing they do; when the first names come out, it's important.

Natasha's one of their best agents, and more importantly, she's one of Phil's. Still, he doesn't know if he's ready to share yet.

"I don't know yet," he settles on. "But I'll let you know when we find it, okay?"

Natasha doesn't ask any more questions, sneaking up on Clint's house without a word, not needing to have it pointed out to her. The lock is a simple pin tumbler and Phil knows he could probably pick it easily enough, but before he can get his picks out, Natasha's already slinking up the wall. "Open skylight," she explains curtly before disappearing onto the roof. Thirty seconds later, she opens the back door for Phil with a smug look on her face.

"No need to gloat, Agent," he tells her, stepping into the kitchen. "It's unbecoming."

"I didn't say a word," Natasha says, but she didn't have to. The Black Widow has never needed words to communicate. Phil scowls at her.

"Start in the kitchen," he says, "I'll get the bedroom."

"Guidelines?" she asks.

"Consider him nothing more than the father of a toddler, and report anything incriminating," Phil says, because she can't be searching completely blindly.

She arches an eyebrow at him and says, "I'm only doing this because Legal is so fucking boring."

"Sure," Phil agrees and heads upstairs.

Phil has more time to take in Clint's house now that he's not distracted by the potential for sex in his immediate future. That thought darkens his mood, and he tries to focus on his surroundings. Clint's clearly been doing some renovation to his own home; the laminate floors are clean and modern, and the furniture is sleek. Some of it looks homemade, like the small table he passed between the kitchen and the stairs. It's sparsely decorated, no extra end tables or knick-knacks on the shelves, but the toys scattered around makes the place look very lived in--homey, Phil thinks.

Phil pauses briefly at the top of the stairs, before deciding to start with Clint's room. He spends the first minute or so just standing. Taking in Clint's space and breathing deeply, faint traces of sex, underneath hints of deodorant and a smell that's pure _Clint_ in his nostrils. _Talk to me_ , he wills the room. _Tell me why you killed your brother._

The fact that it's becoming harder and harder to wonder _if_ Clint killed Barney, as opposed to _why_ Clint killed Barney, doesn't escape Phil. He's refusing to think about it.

Instead he swallows against the lump in his throat and sets about doing his job. It feels like betrayal, going through Clint's stuff, hoping to find something yet at the same time desperately hoping not to. Phil can't help but find it perversely satisfying, uncovering more and more layers of Clint Barton. He's got worn band t-shirts and ratty jeans in the closet, and in a corner Phil finds one sneaker, worn to the sole, its partner nowhere in sight. The furniture is simple: a twin bed, a modest nightstand and a dresser, and Phil runs his other palm along the surfaces, feeling the slight drag of the wood while checking for hidden compartments and hatches.

Clint doesn't have many photos or knick-knacks. The walls are relatively bare, aside from a few photos here and there of Lorin. There's one on Clint's nightstand of Lorin as a baby, wrapped up in a hospital blanket and looking up at the camera with big, confused eyes. There are no photos anywhere of anyone else. If Lorin's mom is out there somewhere, it seems they didn't separate on good terms.

Clint's bow is in a locked case in one corner. Picking the lock is easy, and Phil pauses to admire the weapon. It's clearly seen some days, but it looks... loved. Shiny surface, new string, grip with grooves that no doubt match Clint's hand perfectly. The quiver with arrows is in there too, the modified broadheads sharp and lethal where they peek out. There are two armguards, equally worn, but like the bow and arrows they look well cared for. Phil can respect a man who treats his weapon well.

That train of thought reminds Phil what Clint possibly ( _probably_ , that treacherous voice whispers) used that weapon for, and he sighs, closing the case again. Wonders about the modified broadheads. Wonders about the three arrows to Barney's heart. Did Clint make the broadheads after discovering a single target point didn't do the trick fast enough? 

The most well-loved article of clothing he finds lies in a corner. It was probably once a black t-shirt with a solid purple pattern down the front, but it has now faded into gray and white mosaic, washed-out lines criss-crossing the fabric. It's soft, so soft, and Phil has to remind himself he's not that creepy, and he will not, _absolutely not_ , run it through his hands or lift it to his face and smell it.

Phil likes to consider himself good at his job. He was never cut out for a nine to five desk job, so he's always poured everything he's got into first his stint in the army and then later into SHIELD. Some people might have cried nepotism at his rise through the SHIELD ranks, but anyone who knows Nick Fury knows that he values the integrity of their agency far more than he does his friendship with Phil. Phil made it to Level Seven on merit, and he's proud of that fact.

That's one of the reasons he's surprised when Clint's voice rings out behind him, "Don't move."

Phil, who is halfway through checking the walls and floor, freezes with one hand on the baseboard.

"Phil?" Clint asks, and Phil slowly stands up and turns around, making sure to keep his hands up. When he faces Clint, he gets his suspicions confirmed: Clint is standing in the doorway with a bow drawn tight, and one of his broadhead arrows pointed directly at Phil's face.

For a brief moment Phil considers lying; maybe Clint will think he's just here to surprise him, but then Clint asks, "What the fuck are you doing?" and Phil knows there's no use. He doesn't answer.

"Answer me!" Clint demands. "What the _fuck_ are you doing going through my house?"

Phil remains silent, and instead takes in Clint's bow. It's not the longbow from the case, but rather a compact bow with a complicated-looking mechanism near the grip. "I keep it in the car," Clint explains, obviously having seen where Phil's eyes went. Phil looks up to Clint's face then, and he looks absolutely furious. There's a darkness in his eyes that makes Phil's insides twist, because-- _if_ , Phil forces himself to think--if Clint killed Barney, this is probably the closest Phil will get to seeing that side of him.

"Phil," Clint says again, and he's almost pleading now, underneath the harsh anger. "Answer me. Please."

Phil considers. He doesn't know where to start.

Clint looks, if possible, even angrier. There's a new undercurrent of hurt in his eyes, and his lips pull into a sneer. "I cannot fucking believe this," he snarls. "You SHIELD agents, you're all the goddamn fucking same, all cloak and dagger bullshit lies! What is it you want, huh? Am I part of your assignment somehow? Was _seducing me_ your _job_?"

"No!" Phil blurts out. "No, Clint--I can explain, okay? Just put the bow down."

"Explain first, _then_ the bow comes down," Clint growls. Phil looks at Clint, takes in his even stance, the way his biceps flex without the slightest tremble. He has no doubt Clint could remain like this, bowstring drawn and at the ready, for hours if necessary.

Natasha doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight, and Clint is showing no indication of having even seen her, which means she must have bailed--though the lack of a warning extended Phil's way suggests she, too, was caught by surprise by Clint's arrival. In any case, Phil doesn't think he can count on help from her, since she would have made her presence known by now if she was planning on, or had the opportunity to intervene. Phil sighs and wishes he'd thought to wear his comm link, because he really doesn't have a lot of options here. Once again he struggles to find a good place to start.

"Come on," Clint says, mouth pressing into a flat line between words. "Come on, Phil. Talk to me. This is my _home_. This is my _kid's_ home. What the fuck is going on?"

"Why did you tell me you weren't living in New York at the time of your brother's death?" Phil asks.

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they come out a lot more accusing than he'd intended, and Clint's jaw drops, just a little.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Clint asks.

Phil wants to wince, but he's started talking now and there's no way to go but forward. "I found some things," he says cautiously, "in Barney Barton's autopsy report."

Clint lowers his bow then, arms going lax in an instant as he bows his head and barks out a hollow, ugly laugh. "Of fucking course you did," he says, "because this is actually my life."

Phil presses on. "Why did you lie about your whereabouts when he died?"

"Why did _you_ think breaking into my home instead of just fucking _asking me about it_ was a natural response?" Clint shoots back, renewed anger at the edge of each word. "You've clearly made up your mind! You think I killed him!"

Phil feels annoyance rise in him, despite his best effort to stay calm. "You obviously know the details of this situation," he says, pointing a finger at Clint. "You have to admit, it looks pretty damning. What the hell would you have done?"

"Maybe used my words like a goddamn grownup, instead of skulking around in the shadows?" Clint nearly shouts back, taking a step forward and getting into Phil's face. "You wonder why I don't like SHIELD? _This_ kind of shit is why, everything is fucking cloak and dagger with you assholes!"

"Then why lie about it in the first place?" Phil accuses.

"Why? Because I thought maybe, just maybe, the cops would come to the same fucking conclusion as you did, and I got the _fuck_ out of town as soon as I heard, so that I could pretended I was never there to begin with!"

Phil frowns, because--"That's a terrible idea," he says. He can't help himself.

Clint laughs that hollow laugh again. "Tell me about it," he says. "But I was young and fucking stupid as shit, and that's what I thought was the best idea at the time."

He looks directly into Phil's eyes then, and there's something raw and hurting in there that makes Phil want to gather Clint up and hug him. "Phil, I was young, barely scraping by, and someone tried to fucking set me up for the murder of the only family I had. How the fuck was I supposed to know that nobody would come looking?"

They stand in silence for a little. "I'm sorry," Phil says, watching the anger slowly drain out of Clint's body.

For a moment, he thinks that's it, that Clint will say it's okay, and pull him close, because Clint nods a little and the corners of his mouth tighten in a near smile--but then something hard settles back over Clint's face and he lifts his bow again. "All right. You know the truth. Now get the fuck out of my home."

Something tugs at Phil's heart. "Clint…" he starts, but he doesn't know how to end that sentence, and Clint's face is a mask of angry hurt. Phil gives him a mournful look before slipping past him and heading downstairs, Clint following a few steps behind, still with the bow drawn and pointed at his back.

"Don't come back here," Clint warns when Phil's hand is on the door knob. "Stay away from me."

Phil wants to believe Clint badly, but... "How do I know you're not lying?" Phil asks, because he has to. "How do I know for sure that you didn't kill him?"

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. "Three points of penetration, right? Into the heart?"

Phil nods, says, "Yeah," and Clint opens his eyes again and looks directly into Phil's, stare so intense it makes something in Phil's belly twist.

"I would never have needed three arrows to kill a man," Clint says gravely. "I would have done it with one."

Phil believes him.

*

Natasha is waiting by his car when Phil gets there.

"Not a lot of people manage to take me by surprise," she says conversationally. "He even got close to spotting me. He's pretty good."

"Yeah," Phil agrees without explaining further. He's fairly certain he's broadcasting his misery like a goddamn beacon right now, anyway.

*

By the time Phil returns to the mansion, he's managed to reign in his emotions a little, and he's extra careful to school his face into a neutral mask before entering the workshop, where Stark's currently tinkering with an armor panel. Phil briefly notes that the armor panel--possibly a leg--also has the same lightweight structure as the boot he'd seen earlier, before Stark spots him and rushes towards him, blocking his view.

"How did things go?" Stark asks, and he seems--almost anxious?

"Fine," Phil lies through his teeth. "JARVIS, what's next on Mr. Stark's schedule?"

"Fine?" Stark sputters as JARVIS rattles off an appointment with a potential investor. "That's all you're going to tell me? Fine?"

It requires a lot more focus than Phil would have liked to keep his Serious Agent persona front and center, but he manages. The smile he gives Stark is as bland as the suit he wore to their first meeting. "Mr. Stark, as I've told you on countless occasions before, my private life is still just that: private. I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, but I assure you it is completely unwarranted. Now, we have a meeting to get to. Do I need to call Ms. Potts?"

It's a terrible threat, akin to _Do I need to tell your mother?_ but it's effective. Stark makes a face at Phil and then sulks off towards the stairs, presumably to change. "Fine," he throws over his shoulder, "be that way. But don't think this is over, Agent."

Phil doesn't respond, just waits patiently until Stark's out of sight, before sighing as quietly as he can and sinking down onto the couch.

The problem, he thinks, is that Stark is, for once, completely wrong.

It is over.

*

Phil manages to keep Stark at bay for the next few days, largely via deflection and distraction. In his spare time, he holes up in his room and tries not to think about Clint's face shadowed with anger, or Clint's voice saying, _Stay away from me._ He knows it's juvenile, but part of Phil is also terribly and unreasonably angry with Stark and with Jasper and--even more unreasonably so--with Pepper. This is why, he thinks, he doesn't share details about his private life with anyone but Natasha. Natasha either doesn't care, or at the very least doesn't help him fuck it up further. Usually.

Four days after the confrontation at Clint's house, Pepper shows up at the mansion for brunch, to chase Stark out of the workshop and to get his signature on various paperwork as usual. When they all meet up in the kitchen, she hands over a stack of papers for Stark to sign, and then immediately zeroes in on Phil. "Hello, Phil," she says pleasantly, but there's a softness in her voice that makes it obvious that she knows something has happened between Clint and Phil.

"Hello, Ms. Potts." He greets her with one of the most bland smiles he can manage.

"As you can see, he's still moping," Stark says, void of tact as always.

"Tony," Pepper scolds, at the same time that Phil says, "Mr. Stark, shouldn't you be getting ready to go out? JARVIS informed me you have a meeting in an hour."

Pepper's cup thunks into the counter as she glares at Stark, mild annoyance turning to outrage. "You _just_ told me you cancelled that! I can't believe you sat there and _lied_ to me!"

"Thanks, Agent Killjoy," Stark mutters, before turning to Pepper, wincing. "I--meant to?" he tries.

"Were you just _not_ going to go and leave the Minister waiting?"

Stark tries for innocent, but he's not fooling anyone. "Well, to be fair, I have more important things to do. I was gonna meet with the Board--"

"Oh no." Pepper sighs. "Please don't tell me you're moving forward with the Expo, Tony, please, it's really not--."

"Why not? Stark Expo a perfectly good--"

"--something that I think we should be prioritizing now, you've got--"

"--way to spend my time, it's great for other inventors and creators, such as myself--"

"--about fifty thousand other things, plus you do this whole Iron Man thing--"

"--to showcase their--hey that's a great idea, I should incorporate Iron Man--"

Phil's absolutely convinced Pepper wasn't doing it on purpose, because her voice has started to take on that shrieking quality it only gets when Stark is being particularly obnoxious about something, but he's still grateful for the distraction.

*

Stark goes to the meeting because Pepper wins the argument, and Phil gets the impression she usually does. Then again, by the end, Stark wasn't putting up too many objections, so maybe he likes it that way.

Latveria's Minister of Foreign Affairs is a no-nonsense lady with a sharp smile and a firm handshake, and she easily keeps up with Stark as they negotiate for mineral rights--something about heavy metals and Stark Industries. It's a conversation that Phil can almost, but not quite, follow, though he's fairly certain Stark wants to extract minerals from Latveria. At the end of it though, they both seem happy when they shake hands and part ways and Stark adjusts his tie and puffs out his chest on the way back to the car.

"That was fun," he tells Phil.

"Made millions?" Phil asks, looking around the parking garage before nodding his approval to let Stark exit the building and enter the car.

"Spent some," Stark says, happy as a clam, and Phil rolls his eyes.

After that, they head to Stark Industries where Stark apparently is going forward with his Expo. Phil keeps his opinions about the Expo to himself because nobody has asked him--and even if Stark had asked him, Phil feels confident Stark would ignore him with even more gusto than he does with Pepper--and instead keeps his ears peeled for any information about new tech Stark might have lined up. Whatever Stark wants Latverian minerals for however, he's not sharing.

Stark delegates tasks with unusual efficiency, which is a firm indication of how much he actually cares about his Expo. By the time early afternoon rolls around, Stark's arranged for Expo space in Flushing Meadows, and he's spoken to four architects to begin planning stages. He's whistling Judas Priest loudly as he buckles into the car and heads back towards the mansion.

"Good day," he informs Phil. "I was thinking we should take the ice cream truck out to celebrate?"

Phil's done an admirable job of keeping his thoughts off Clint throughout the day, but the idea of going out there with the ice cream truck instantly makes him uncomfortable.

"Have fun with that," he tells Stark, who laughs.

"Yeah, you're funny. You're coming with me, Agent Sourpuss."

"Take Agent Sitwell," Phil orders.

Stark looks triumphant. "Agent Sitwell is currently unavailable. I sent him and Happy to a boxing match, something-something championship going on right now. You're it for my detail."

Phil has to take a deep breath through his nostrils to stay calm. "Okay, first of all, you're not authorized to send away _my_ coworker. Secondly, if he's unavailable, stay at home," Phil warns. "If you try to leave without me--"

"You're gonna what? I have a suit with me in the truck," Stark reminds him.

"In the truck is not the same as on your body," Phil reminds him right back. "You can take Hogan with the ice cream truck, but you are not currently authorized to leave without any form of detail--"

"I know, I know," Stark croons. "Threats, bodily harm, big owies--well, tough titties, sweetheart, I want to take the ice cream truck out, Happy's not here, so guess what? That means you're coming with."

Phil looks at the time, thinks about how he's still technically on duty, and how Jasper covered for him the day he went to Clint's, and he wonders how angry Nick would be? Then he considers all the possible enemies Stark's got out there right now, and groans quietly to himself as he slumps back in his seat. Stark's right.

*

Stark looks almost giddy when he climbs into the ice cream truck. It's enough to make Phil suspicious, though not nearly as suspicious as he gets when he sees the red metal briefcase Stark's got handcuffed to his wrist.

"New toy?" Phil asks.

"New toy," Stark confirms, and that's all he says about it.

He's still whistling Judas Priest as he pulls out of his garage.

*

Vera rumbles happily as Stark pushes her engine. The sun's started to droop on the horizon, and Phil puts his sunglasses on, happy that they conceal his eyes since Stark's still glancing over every so often. He's wearing purple-tinted sunglasses today, and everything about him is annoying Phil. He does his best not to notice it, or the continued glances, and instead tries to relax on the drive.

He does sit up and take notice however, when Stark turns the truck in a direction that's not entirely towards Clint's neighborhood. "Where are we going?" he asks, and tries to sound casual about it.

"Different route," Stark says innocently.

Phil's not buying it, but instead of arguing with Stark, he leans back and decides to wait it out.

Stark remains quiet, save for his cheerful whistling, until they enter a residential neighborhood. Navigating through well-kept streets, Stark eventually pulls into a big parking lot, and when he turns the truck around to park it at a curb, Phil can see signs declaring them to be at Point McElroy High School. "Why are we here?" Phil asks, confused and increasingly suspicious.

"Ah," Stark says happily, jumping out of his seat to open the side hatch. "Just in time."

A small crowd has started filtering out from what's clearly the school's sports field, mostly teenagers and a few parents, and Phil's heart sinks in his chest when he realizes several of the kids are carrying very familiar-looking cases.

"Stark," he growls.

Stark's response is to flip the switch for the music, and the tinny sounds of _Master of Puppets_ float out into the air.

Phil sees Clint at the same time that Clint sees him, and they both freeze, Phil rooted to the spot in the front seat of the ice cream truck, and Clint stopping so suddenly in his tracks that a teenager crashes into him from behind.

"Shit, fuck," Phil swears.

"I have the _best_ ideas," Stark declares loudly, loud enough that Clint hears it, and he twitches a little then, before rolling his eyes. He doesn't run away, however, exchanging some words with some of the kids, and Phil turns around to glare at Stark.

"Just so you know, I'm not pleased with you, none of this is thanks to you, and there will be consequences for this later," he warns Stark, before jumping out of the truck and walking towards Clint. Stark doesn't even acknowledge that Phil's spoken to him; he's busy charming the teenagers who are falling over themselves because Iron Man is giving out free ice cream.

Clint keeps an eye on Phil as he approaches, and when Phil's almost there he says, "Hey, uh, Jason, we'll talk about this later, okay?" The teenager he'd been addressing glances quickly at Phil before nodding and scurrying away.

"Hi," Phil says.

Clint glares at him.

"Your archery club?" Phil guesses, even though it's quite obvious.

Clint glares some more.

Phil takes a deep breath and then just looks at Clint for a moment. He looks faintly worn out, like maybe he hasn't slept so well lately, but that could also just be the deadly glare he's still leveling at Phil. He's not carrying his own case, and he is keeping both his arms crossed in front of his body in a pose that's both defiant and protective, and Phil wants desperately to be able to fix what he broke.

"I told you to stay away from me," Clint says darkly.

Phil nods. "I know, I know, and believe me, I had no idea Stark was intending on taking the truck here today, I just...I saw you, and I needed to apologize."

Something flits over Clint's face then, fast and ugly, and he sounds almost apologetic when he tells Phil, "Listen, I just don't think this is a good idea."

There's a weird part of Phil that feels oddly petulant and wants to whine, _But why?_ Almost as if he can sense it, Clint goes on, "There's just--too much complicated shit between the two of us."

"I'm okay with complicated," Phil tries, remembers saying _I'm okay with baggage,_ and is painfully aware that there's a hint of desperation in his voice.

Clint looks regretful. "I--," he starts, then has to clear his throat and start again. "I--I think I need to consider Lorin. And he doesn't need another fucked up person in his life."

For a moment Phil wonders who the first fucked up person is, thinks maybe Clint means himself, but then he remembers Lorin's mom and Clint's voice when he said, _That was complicated._

"For what it's worth," Phil says carefully, "I am truly, deeply sorry for not trusting you after all the trust you showed me. If you'd give me another chance, I would do my very best to never let you down like that again, but--ultimately it's your choice, and I do understand if you won't."

Clint looks downright ashamed now, and he scrapes one toe against the pavement.

"Actually, uh--," he says, and then the sound of gunfire interrupts whatever he was going to say next.

Everything happens at once. Teenagers screech as Phil whips around and tries to spot the attacker ( _attackers,_ his mind tells him, too many gunshots), firearm already in his hands. Briefly registering that Clint's ducked down on reflex, Phil shouts at Stark, "Get down!"

In the ice cream truck, Stark does, naturally, the opposite of what he's being told. As Phil runs towards him, Stark leaps into the front and slams his hand down on a button on the dashboard, and the heavy sound of hydraulics moving fills the air.

Vera's fold-out bomb shelter is a beauty to behold; it's fast assembling and sturdy, and Stark runs out of the truck, briefcase clutched to his chest and screaming, "Get in! Get in here!" to the teenagers and their parents.

"Get the _fuck_ down!" Phil orders Stark, and then someone tackles him from behind as a bullet goes whizzing by his ear.

"Fuck," Clint wheezes from on top of Phil's body, but Phil can't pause at the moment. He struggles away from Clint, comes up rolling, and then leans against Vera's armored side, taking a moment to take stock of the situation.

It's a tight fit in Vera's shelter, but the last parent-teenager pair makes it inside and Stark slams the door shut with a firm, "Stay there, we'll get you when it's safe, I _promise!_ "

There's a pause in the gunfire, and Clint slumps down on one side of Phil. Phil considers objecting for a split second, but he saw the tight fit, teenagers and adults hunkered down; there's no room for Clint in there. Stark sits down on the other side of Phil, breathing heavily.

Phil caught a glimpse of heavily armed men in dark outfits, but he had no chance to take a proper look at how many there were. He reaches for his comm link.

"Agent Sitwell, can you hear me? I've got an unknown number of hostiles and a number of civilians in the line of fire, we need backup right now!"

There's no response.

"Agent Sitwell?" he asks again, before trying, "Agent Romanoff, do you copy?" Natasha would respond even if it took her last breath to do so, this he knows. If she's not responding, either base has been compromised, or the comm link is dead. Either option is unlikely, but the latter is the more probable of the two.

"Shit." Stark looks at him questioningly. "Comm links are down," Phil explains, and Stark groans.

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Phil agrees, then jerks his head back towards the truck. "Thought you were getting into your suit."

"I actually removed the suit from Vera," Stark says, and Phil feels like his head's about to explode.

"You did _what_?" he asks angrily as the gunfire starts again. In his peripheral vision, Clint twitches as bullets ricochet off the other side of the truck. Phil can't worry about everything at once right now, though; he's busy being furious with Stark. It's probably as uncontrolled as he's been on this assignment. "You deliberately misled me into thinking you had a suit with you when you _didn't?_ "

"Calm down," Stark scolds and holds up the suitcase, which he's now uncuffed from himself. "I said I removed the suit from Vera. I didn't say I didn't have one with me!"

Scooting away from the shelter of the truck, Stark gets up into a crouch, and Phil's about to tackle him to the ground, when Stark throws the suitcase down and steps on something, and it--blossoms. Phil's mesmerized. Next to him, Clint's jaw drops.

Metal plating folds up and up, and Stark sticks his hand into the mess, and then straightens up at the same time as he _pulls_ , and--Phil watches in amazement and, honestly, a lot of admiration as the exoskeleton he'd seen in Stark's lab unfolds in front of his eyes. It's elegant and sleek and fascinating, the way it moves, plating layering itself and fanning across Stark's body, closing around his wrists and legs, before finally the helmet flips over his head and the faceplate snaps in place. The entire process takes maybe a few seconds total.

"Told you I had a suit," Stark says smugly from behind the faceplate, arc reactor glowing in his chest, and then he takes off with a roar of his repulsor engines.

Phil stares at the spot he vacated. Next to him, Clint looks equally stunned.

"Did you know he could do that?" Clint asks faintly.

"I did not know he could do that," Phil confirms. The sound of gunfire intensifies, and it snaps him out of his fascination with Stark and his toys.

"I'm gonna get backup," he says, reaching into his jacket for his phone, but just then a spray of bullets passes right over their heads, and Phil has to duck, roll and fire back. "Right. Let's just get out of here," he says to Clint once the gunman is down, and then ushers him to his feet.

Popping his head around the truck, he can see Stark fighting off multiple hostiles, but there are definitely more of them than Stark can contain all at once. Firing off a couple of rounds to help Stark, Phil looks around for a place that will provide both himself and Clint with better shelter, and lead any potential pursuers away from the people huddled in Vera's bomb shelter.

"That way," he tells Clint, pointing towards the field, where there's bleachers and booths and terrain that isn't this too-open parking lot. "Stay low, I'll cover you."

They make it across the parking lot in one piece, but when they're nearly to the field, someone spots them, and a bullet pings off the fence dangerously close to Clint's head.

Phil fires back and registers that he gets at least one hostile, before he runs onward, pushing Clint ahead of him. There are a few structures at one end of the field on a slightly elevated wooden platform. Referee booths stand side by side with utility sheds, some sides covered with heavy tarps, and Phil shoves Clint down between the wooden back wall and the tarp of the next booth over, hissing, "Stay down," at him and trying not to let the concern he has for Clint show in his voice.

"What are you gonna do?" Clint asks, but Phil doesn't answer. Instead, he holds his gun up and waits.

The sounds of gunfire and repulsor whines are loud even here, but Phil focuses and breathes deeply, and lets it all become ambient background noise. He hears the clomping of heavy boots on wood. He counts it off in his head, waiting for the right moment, before leaping out and firing two shots at the black-clad man who was about to round the corner, and then everything moves terribly fast for a moment.

The man Phil shot falls, but there are two more almost directly behind him. One of them lunges for Phil and knocks his arm away. Phil moves on instinct then, using his left hand to grab him, then spins around and rams the butt of the gun still in his other hand into the man's jaw. He groans and stumbles, but Phil's already moving again, spinning the other way to roundhouse kick the third gunman and following up with an uppercut to his jaw. Sending a quick, silent thanks to Hogan for helping him with his form, Phil turns back to the first man just in time to stare down the barrel of a wicked-looking weapon. Phil's quicker however, and the gunman looks appropriately horrified as his shot goes over Phil's head and hits his buddy in the neck.

Phil uses his distraction to his advantage and places a bullet between the gunman's eyes, before turning to the last hostile, weapon raised and ready--but it's not necessary. The last man, who got hit in the neck, is on the ground, eyes wide and unseeing.

"Jesus," Clint breathes, peeking out from around the corner.

"Stay back," Phil reminds him, and Clint crouches down low, but doesn't retreat fully back behind the corner. Phil glances over the dead gunmen before leaning down to pick up the weapon that had almost killed him a few seconds earlier. It's modified and doesn't look like any gun Phil's ever seen--but it appears to have been firing bullets all the same. It's clearly a sophisticated weapon though, and whoever these guys are, they have financial backing for sure. Professionals. That makes them far more dangerous than, for instance, the idiot would-be kidnappers that attacked them the day he met Clint.

That thought propels Phil back in action, and he looks quickly in Clint's direction.

"Right, backup," Phil says and starts to reach into his jacket for his phone again--but just then another shot rings out and Phil's fingers won't quite cooperate with him anymore.

Being shot is a curious feeling. The impact of the bullet rocks Phil's body back on his heels and spins him a little, but the adrenaline prevents the pain from hitting immediately. For what feels like several seconds, he can't breathe--and then his knees give out and the world is tilting. He's about to hit the ground when strong arms wrap around him and pull him to the side, behind the corner of the closest booth and between the folds of the tarps there.

This isn't nearly the first time Phil's been shot. An unlucky ricochet got him in Iraq, and he got hit in the shoulder and arm by two small caliber rounds from an angry mark on a mission in Laos. He took a bullet to the chest in Prague and nearly died, and he was grazed fleeing from Sweden into Finland a few years prior. He knows he's in shock, and the pain has started to creep in along the edges--he knows it'll intensify, slowly at first and then faster--and he should be assessing the damage, try to stop the bleeding. Yet he can't really focus on anything but Clint's face, strong and firm above him, and surprisingly calm and focused.

"Hey, hey," Clint says, and his voice sounds stressed but not shaky. "Hey."

"Hey," Phil says back. The pain is starting in his side. Chest area. Probably got a rib. Possibly minor lung damage; he's having trouble catching his breath, but that could also be from the impact or the shock. "I'm sorry," he says on a gasp. "About everything."

"Shut up, shut up," Clint says rapidly, hands roaming over Phil's body. It makes the pain intensify, and Phil groans, briefly squeezing his eyes shut against it. "Phone," Clint mutters, searching, "where's your phone?"

"Inner--" is all Phil manages, but it's enough for Clint who immediately finds it and flips it open. Phil tries to reach for it, he needs to be the one to contact base, he's the one who knows the number and their call signals, but then Clint's got the phone pressed to his ear.

"This is code name Hawkeye, Bravo Tango Juliet Foxtrot Niner Six Six Delta, I need immediate assistance and evacuation at Point McElroy High School. Bad guys are shooting up the place with weaponry that I don't think the local PD can handle, and Agent Coulson's been shot. Iron Man is on the scene, but we've got civilians in the line of fire."

Phil's mind is trying to wrap around what he's hearing, but everything's starting to swim a little. He shakes his head to clear it and immediately regrets the sudden movement. When he can see straight again, Clint's off the phone and looking down at him again.

"So," Clint says quickly, looking a little sheepish for a split second and _intensely_ regretful. "There are probably some things I might have--not told you, too. Or lied about. Whatever."

Before he can explain further, a gunshot rings out nearby, and both Phil and Clint startle at its proximity, but then Jasper drops down into a crouch next to Phil and nods at Clint.

"Thank you, Hawkeye, backup is on the way."

"You--," Phil tries to say, _You're not surprised?_ but he can't take in enough breath in his lungs to do so.

"Stay still, don't talk," Clint orders, grim and determined, and places one hand on Phil's torso, right where the gunshot wound is, judging by the pain that accompanies the pressure. "You leading the cavalry?" Clint asks Jasper with a raised eyebrow as gunshots start going off again.

Jasper smirks. "Of course I am."

Over the noise, Phil can hear the sound of Quinjet engines, and he knows Natasha at least is nearby.

"I don't know what the fuck they did to your comm link, but ours still work. JARVIS sent out a distress signal as soon as Stark hit that panic button on the truck," Jasper explains, and the gunfire is already quieting down.

"Sss--," Phil tries, 

"Come on. Stay with us, Phil," Clint says brusquely, but he doesn't sound as convincing as he's going for. "I know you're tougher than this."

He's partially right. Phil's had worse. But breathing is becoming harder still, and Clint just called for backup using SHIELD's own codes, and Phil doesn't understand anything anymore. He closes his eyes against the chaos; he's got a headache brewing. The last thing he hears is, "Fuck, Phil, I'm so fucking mad at you right now," and then there's just blessed silence and darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Phil wakes up in the hospital, it's to find Pepper smiling at him with relief from a chair next to his bed. Phil's mind is muddled and the instinct to ask what happened is strong, but his throat feels like sandpaper and his chest feels crushed, and Pepper hushes him immediately. "Don't try to talk," she says. "Just relax. You're fine."

Phil looks at her and something must have shown in his eyes, because Pepper glances briefly towards the door. "Everyone is all right. Nobody was hurt and from my understanding, SHIELD has apprehended the attackers. If you're up for it, Director Fury will explain everything. Do you need more rest, or are you awake now?"

Managing a brief nod, Phil tries to convey with his eyes that he's awake and would like an explanation for the attack, for everything--for Clint--and then promptly falls asleep again.

*

The next time Phil wakes up, there's nobody in his room, and he spends what could be one minute or twenty, just blinking out of the fog. Phil takes a deep breath, carefully moving his limbs just a little to test his own body's limitations. He hurts, there's no doubt about that, but his head feels a lot clearer than the last time, and he's able to really evaluate his surroundings and condition. The hospital room seems to be one of SHIELD's own. He's got a large bandage around his torso, extra compression on the front and side, and a tube sticking out of his chest. While annoying, it's not the worst injury he's ever sustained.

Phil carefully clears his throat a little, testing his vocal chords, and then immediately decides remaining silent is the better option for the time being. His throat burns. Breathing is at least easier, and that's a sharp relief compared to the sensory memory that followed him into unconsciousness.

A nurse and a doctor enter the room then, and Phil recognizes them both immediately, further confirming his conclusion that he's in a SHIELD facility.

"Agent Coulson," Dr. Harris greets him. "Good to see you awake."

Phil just nods and smiles a little in return, saving his breath and his voice for later. He's eager to see Nick and get answers to his questions.

Phil waits patiently while Dr. Harris checks him and goes over his injuries and subsequent surgery--Phil was largely right, the bullet nicked a lung, then bounced off one of his ribs to exit out of his back; all in all, he was very lucky, Dr. Harris says. Phil nods weakly and smiles blandly and doesn't say that he already knew that he was lucky. After all, he's alive, isn't he? After a bullet to the chest, that's lucky.

Still, he understands what Dr. Harris means, because the bullet did very, very little damage, all things considered, and he won't need much physical therapy, if any, like he did after Prague. He'll probably always have a slight soreness, a stiffness to his muscles as they patch up around the holes in his body, but Phil is getting up there in age and his body has collected these marks for decades. What's another battle scar?

So Phil listens as Dr. Harris talks about antibiotics and respiration rehabilitation, and as he talks about pain meds and care, and yes, Phil _will_ buzz the nurse if he needs anything. Phil _promises_ , with two fingers crossed underneath the blanket, to cooperate and stay for observation for the full amount of time, and waits and waits for Dr. Harris to be done with it all. Phil's patience is finally rewarded when Dr. Harris says, "All right, I'll be back to check up on you later, Agent Coulson," and leaves with the nurse in tow, because as they're walking out of the room, Nick Fury walks in.

Phil watches him carefully, takes in the way Nick carries himself, his hands held at the small of his back, the barely noticeable dip of Nick's head as he circles around Phil's bed to come stand at his side.

"Cheese," Nick says, and--ooh, nicknames. Phil tries for a sassy eyebrow arch that he's not entirely certain he actually pulls off.

"You owe me an apology, sir," Phil says, voice raspy from his sore throat, because Nick called him Cheese and that means that the _sir_ will sting more than anything else.

"I do," Nick agrees, sitting down in the chair next to Phil's bed and sighing deeply. "Do you even fucking know why?"

Phil shakes his head in lieu of answering no, and instead says, "I know guilt when I see it."

Nick sighs deeply and leans back in his chair. "To be fair, I didn't know the entire story myself. I would have, if I'd known who your single dad was," he says with a pointed look at Phil. "I'm half tempted to mandate that you name any and all future love interests to the agency, just in case this happens again!"

Phil waits for Nick to continue and thinks about Clint. He lets his eyebrows knit together in a frown to signal his unhappiness, because this is Nick, and Nick has always been able to read him better than anyone anyway.

Nick sighs again, regretfully this time. Leaning forward, he produces a binder from somewhere in the folds of his black duster, and places it in Phil's lap. When Phil opens it, a blonde woman wearing a SHIELD combat uniform stares back at him. Her smile is somehow vaguely familiar, and Phil _knows_ her face from somewhere. He's seen it before.

"That," Fury says, "is Agent 19."

Phil stares and listens, as his brain keeps trying to connect every word Nick says to Clint.

"Barbara 'Bobbi' Morse, aka Agent 19, was part of our Intelligence Acquisition Division some years back. She was originally recruited as a biochemist, but made the transition to a field agent. Six years ago she, along with Agents Woo and Davidson, was assigned what was supposed to be a routine smash and grab mission in South America, and ended up accidentally stumbling across some research notes."

The way Nick says _research notes_ makes Phil look up, and Nick nods. "Experimental theories surrounding Dr. Erskine's formula. Agent 19, with her background, took a special interest. She followed the trail to a Dr. Paul Allen, and we took him on as a consultant for a while, hoping to bring him on board."

Phil's frown grows deeper, because that's Captain America stuff. Nick has never excluded him from any Captain America related assignments or information before--ever--and it stings a little, both on a professional and personal level.

"Don't give me that look," Nick says, rolling his eyes. "You physically cannot be everywhere at once, and you were in Italy with Romanoff at the time. As I recall you had your hands full with that."

Phil keeps frowning, but he can't actually argue with that logic. Italy had been a clusterfuck; they'd lost seven agents on that op, and Natasha had been badly injured. She'd been pretty angry once she recovered.

"So anyway, Dr. Allen? Not so much a good egg. From what we gather, he was a plant. His ultimate objective remains unknown, but we're fairly certain he wanted access to our own files on Dr. Erskine's formula. After Agent Morse made him and the whole thing blew up in our faces, she went off the grid for a while, with my blessing. I didn't know where she went, and I didn't want to know."

It clicks then, where Phil's seen her before. Not only has he seen her in SHIELD's files and databases, but he knows he's right. He's seen that smile before, on Lorin's face as he happily slurped Icelandic fruit bars in front of his house.

The timelines match up, too. Agent 19 went off the grid, and Phil instantly knows where she went: California.

"That's right," Nick says, as if reading Phil's mind. "At some point, Agent 19 gave birth to that little brat you've been feeding ice cream."

 _He's not a brat_ , Phil thinks, _and they were fruit bars._ But he's not about to expend some of his limited energy on vocalizing those thoughts.

He does say, "Did you know?"

"What, that Barton had a connection to Agent 19?" Nick asks, eyebrow arching up above his eye patch before he sighs again. "Not at first. She was quite thorough in covering her tracks. I didn't even know she had a kid until she contacted me again."

That surprises Phil and he makes no effort to hold it back.

"Agent 19 contacted me almost four years ago. She'd been made, but when they found her, they didn't kill her." Nick pauses. "They wanted to hire her. They'd been trying to find her for years, because they wanted her to help Dr. Allen with Dr. Erskine's formula. They-- _asked_ her," Nick says, making it clear they didn't really ask, "to help them recreate the super soldier serum that gave us Captain Rogers."

Phil looks at Agent 19--Bobbi Morse's face, staring up at him from the photo in his lap, and tries to process everything he's hearing.

"Bobbi Morse," Nick says gravely, "is deep undercover in an organization that calls itself Advanced Idea Mechanics."

AIM. Phil knows that name.

Nick nods. "Yeah. On the surface they've been making a name for themselves in biomechanics and bioengineering. Under the surface, they've got--other intentions."

Phil feels a thousand questions bubble up in his chest, and he fights the exhaustion and his aches so he can voice them all. "What about Clint?" he asks. "How did they meet? Does he know? When did you find out? Is he working for us? Is Agent Morse still checking in?"

Nick holds up a hand to silence Phil, and Phil only accepts the slightly condescending gesture on account of the soreness in his throat and the tightness in his chest.

"Believe me, if I'd been aware of the details sooner, I wouldn't have accepted your little field romance so readily. Agent 19 arranged everything. I gave her a very specific promise, a promise I still intend to keep, to keep her ex-husband and son as safe as possible." _Ex-husband_ , Phil notes, but Nick continues talking. "I never met Barton in person. She set him up with a code name and call sign, in case of emergency. I didn't ask for details beyond that, in order to better protect them. The further removed from them she was--the further removed from them _I_ was--the safer they would be."

Sinking back against the pillows, Phil has more questions at the tip of his tongue, but this is a lot of information to take in and he's starting to fade. Nick beats him to it anyway.

"Before you ask, Barton does know that Agent 19 is in deep cover. I don't however believe he was particularly pleased with that situation, but I don't like to get involved in lovers' spats."

"Why," Phil says around a yawn, "why haven't you extracted her? _Years_ , Marcus. She has a son."

Nick is quiet for a long while, and it takes Phil several moments to focus enough to decipher the look on his friend's face. "The formula," Phil says.

He wonders if there are more ops like this. If SHIELD has more agents, spread out and alone on their missions. Six months ago he would have said no way, but six months ago he also wouldn't have thought Nick would have kept missions of this magnitude hidden from him.

"She checks in with us," Nick says, "but she's requested to stay on the op until progress can be made with the formula."

Phil tries not to scowl. Reminds himself Nick is his friend.

"You let her," he says, but it still comes out accusingly. He knows exactly why Nick let her stay under for so long.

"Hell yes, I let her," Nick agrees, and his scowl makes it clear that he doesn't appreciate the criticism. "Agent 19 is a talented agent. In addition to bringing us extremely valuable information about AIM, a group we have unusually little intel about so far, by the way, she is one of the best biochemists on the planet. Having her working _with_ Dr. Allen is a rare opportunity. Do you think, if we extracted her and placed Dr. Allen in containment, that he would cooperate with us? Fuck no! This could be the best chance we'll ever get to recreate Dr. Erskine's formula."

Phil breathes evenly and thinks about everything Agent Morse has sacrificed for this mission, and tries to place himself in her situation. Phil thinks that as much as he loves the Avengers Initiative, he would have made a different call.

"We're just gonna have to agree to disagree on this one, Cheese," Nick says, standing up and collecting the folder from Phil's lap. Phil has some choice words for Nick, but holds his tongue. "As for how Agent 19 met Barton, I honestly couldn't tell ya. You're gonna have to ask him yourself, when you get out of here."

"When I get out of here?"

Nick heads to the door, but not so fast that Phil doesn't see the little smirk on his face first. "When you get out of here," he confirms. "Agent Sitwell will be by later to debrief you about the incident at the high school. Have fun with that."

Phil wants to cuss, except that would require using more breath and voice than it seems like it's worth. He closes his eyes instead and wonders if maybe he can sleep through his entire recuperation to make it go faster.

*

Jasper arrives the next day with a tablet and a folder, and they go through Phil's debriefing fast. They've both jumped through these hoops before, and Phil's grateful for Jasper's professionalism.

"We can't prove anything--yet," Jasper says with a long-suffering sigh, "but we're pretty sure General Ross is behind it."

Phil almost goes bug-eyed.

"Yeah," Jasper nods. "Director Fury's on it. Doubt he'll get anything, though. Even the World Security Council doesn't seem convinced that Stark is a suitable solo pilot for the Iron Man armor."

"Idiots," Phil hisses. "They don't know anything."

"Oh, I'm in complete agreement," Jasper says, nodding, "you don't have to convince me. In any case, General Ross might be a little preoccupied in the coming days, so Director Fury has assigned some of us to dig a little deeper; see if we can get anything to stick."

"Preoccupied?" Phil asks.

"Apparently Dr. Banner was spotted on American soil again," Jasper says casually, and Phil curses.

"Please don't tell me the Director is using him as bait. Please."

Jasper shakes his head. "Nah, not this time. It came from Ross's guys. We're to keep Ross from reaching him, but in the meantime he'll probably be busy. You know how obsessed he is with the guy."

"I know." Phil sighs, and he's already itching to get out of the hospital bed.

They finish the debriefing and at the end of it, after Jasper's logged everything and is putting the tablet away, Phil stops him with a hand on his wrist. "How is--how is Clint?" he asks cautiously.

Frozen halfway out of his seat, Jasper studies Phil's face for a moment, before sighing and sitting back down. "Clint's fine. Not a scratch on him."

"What happened to him after I passed out? Is he--is he angry at me still?" Phil asks.

Jasper squirms a little and looks uncomfortable. "Listen, I know I give you shit, but I don't really know what went down between you two and I'm really not comfortable getting in the middle of this, okay?"

"Please," Phil asks.

"Urgh," Jasper groans, before sighing in resignation. "We debriefed him. Took him home. Far as I can tell, he's…" Jasper hesitates. "I--told him where to find you, gave him the room number and all, and he took the card with your info on it, but--he didn't say anything. I don't know if he's still pissed at you."

Phil nods and sighs, resigning himself to just _waiting_ to see if Clint will show up.

"Back there," Phil says as Jasper stands up and starts buttoning his jacket. "You said, ‘Thank you, Hawkeye.’ Did you know?"

Jasper shakes his head. "I heard his call come in on the comms. I didn't know before then, I swear, Phil."

Phil nods, eyelids heavy. "Okay. Thanks, Jasper."

"No problem," Jasper says, but his tone sounds like he doesn't actually think he did Phil any favors at all.

Phil watches him go, and then waits.

*

For the most part, Phil's pretty okay with getting older. The years have been exceptionally kind to him despite the tumultuous life he's led--still leads--and he takes both great care and great pride in his strength, his stamina, his overall physical condition. However the one thing he really hates is the recovery time after an injury, which only seems to increase with every passing year. Phil still remembers when being treated for injury meant getting a Band-Aid slapped on before leaping out of the med bay again to get right back to it. Phil's body isn't what it used to be however, which means respecting Dr. Harris's orders is for his own damn good.

SHIELD's medical facility is excellent, but it's still a medical facility, and Phil is _bored_. And the more he recovers, the more boring it gets. The chest tube is out, he's doing his exercises and movements, taking his meds, and he's ready to leave already! Pepper visits every day, which keeps him from going completely insane. He doesn't ask how she has time to visit with him so frequently, and in return she smuggles in real coffee and food for him. Phil's grateful for Pepper.

The day before his release they're playing Casino, and Pepper casually Clears the entire table, most assuredly winning in the process, when she asks, "So have you spoken to Clint yet?"

Phil pretends to consider his cards as if he still has a chance to win this round. "No."

"Has he come to see you?" Pepper asks, waiting patiently.

"No," Phil says again, and pretends that he hasn't been desperately waiting every day, perking up every time the door opened and slumping down every time it turned out not to be Clint.

"Will you go see him?"

"Is this an interrogation?" Phil asks, feeling vaguely defensive.

Pepper smiles at him, that pleasant, non-threatening, yet completely disarming smile that Phil's seen her use on Stark when he's being a particular nuisance. Phil swallows.

"I'm not trying to pry into your private life," Pepper says diplomatically, which means she totally is, "but I thought you really liked this guy?"

"Well, I did," Phil admits, then corrects, "I do. I'm just not sure if--well, if he wants to see me. And if he does, that should be his decision."

Pepper's look softens, and she sighs. "I don't know exactly what happened between you two, Phil; Tony was oddly tight-lipped about the whole thing. But for what it's worth? I'm sorry."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Phil says as casually as he can manage.

"I'm sure you will," Pepper responds, as if she sees right through him. Phil wonders if it's too late to recruit her. Then he thinks about her attachment to Stark and decides against it.

*

Jasper and Hogan pick him up from the SHIELD medical facility when he's released, and Phil tries not to be disappointed that Pepper's not there.

"Who's watching Stark?" he asks as he gets into the back of Stark's Town Car.

"He's off doing his superhero thing," Jasper says, gesturing for Phil to move over so he can get in next to him. "I brought your paperwork."

Phil frowns as Hogan gets in the driver's seat "Paperwork?"

"We've officially been made redundant," Jasper explains, pulling out a thick file folder and placing it in Phil's lap. "Now that Stark's completed the suitcase prototype, Agent Romanoff and I are both in agreement that his self-sufficiency is satisfactory."

Phil stares.

"We're off babysitting duty," Jasper clarifies, as if Phil didn't understand it. Phil continues to stare, and tries to process this new information. "I thought you'd be happy," Jasper says. "You get to finish out your recuperation back home, and from what I hear you didn't even want this gig in the first place?"

"Yeah, no…" Phil trails off and wonders if anyone has spoken to Clint since his debrief. "That's true." Collecting himself, Phil opens the folder and starts going through the documents. He knows there are a lot of things to go through and sign, and getting a head start on it wouldn't be a bad idea. "I'd like to remain here as we wrap things up, though, if that's okay?"

Jasper just shrugs and leans back. "You're still point on this; I defer to you."

"Tony's been working on the ice cream truck," Hogan says from the front seat, and Phil raises his head.

"What?"

"Tony," Hogan says again, starting the car. "He's been working on the ice cream truck. I think he removed the armor mechanics completely."

Phil's refusing to acknowledge what he knows Hogan is hinting at, and just nods. "Good. No need for the unnecessary bulk."

Hogan gives him a scathing look in the rearview mirror that Phil pretends not to see, before heaving a put-upon sigh and pulling into traffic.

*

Phil is a pragmatic person at heart, so he keeps himself busy in the last few days at Stark's mansion. If he's hoping that he'll see Clint again before he leaves, well--that's something he doesn't need to mention to anyone. He oversees the collection of every piece of supplementary surveillance equipment SHIELD had installed on Stark's property and makes sure all the appropriate NDAs get signed and forwarded, and he goes through and approves all the documents after Stark and Hogan's debriefings.

After a consultation with Natasha and Nick, they agree to keep her cover in the Stark Industries Legal Department intact for a few more weeks. Nick wants to ensure a smooth transition to Stark's new life as a superhero in the public eye without direct SHIELD interference or backing, so Phil gets to take care of all the paperwork for that, too.

"You know, you could file all of these forms yourself," he points out to Natasha when she meets him at the office to sign some papers.

"I could," Natasha agrees. "But where's the fun in that?"

Phil rolls his eyes and doesn't mention that he's grateful for the distraction. Keeping busy helps.

After that, Phil gets to see Stark's suitcase armor up close--and boy, that helps a _lot_ with his funk--so he can file the appropriate forms to send back to SHIELD. He suspects Stark's sudden cooperation on the matter is partially due to misplaced guilt over the still-healing hole in Phil's chest, but he won't look this particular gift horse in the mouth. Stark, for his part, seems genuinely ecstatic over this armor, and Phil spends a good hour with a smile on his face, just listening to Stark argue with Pepper over whether to name it or not. (They don't reach a conclusion.)

He doesn't take Jasper to the airport, because Hogan has apparently volunteered for that job, and Phil would be annoyed at the easy friendship the two have struck up, except he still has Pepper.

Pepper continues to come by. Phil has frequently thought himself too old to be making new friends, yet here he is. They exchange contact information, and Phil manages to not be entirely blatant about shamelessly digging for information about the progress on the charities Stark has set up.

On his last day there, Pepper hugs him, which is unexpected but pleasant. "Don't be a stranger," she tells him with unusual warmth in her voice, before she adds, "You'll be fine," as if the possibility that Phil might actually _not_ be fine was ever an option.

Phil shrugs it off and smiles blandly, because that's the only way he knows how to handle this situation. Clint wasn't in his life for a long time, so there's really no logical reason for the whole mess to have affected him this much, and Phil's refusing to sit around and mope about it like some lovesick teenager.

"Bags all packed? Good to go?" Stark asks as he enters the room, loud and brash as usual.

Phil glances at his suitcase by the wall, then at his watch. "I need to be headed out shortly. My plane leaves at 6."

Stark narrows his eyes at him, like he's evaluating something, and for a moment Phil has the terrifying thought that he's about to be hugged by Stark, too. Then Stark jerks his head towards the stairs and says, "Come on. You're coming with me. I'll fly you back to New York myself."

"Um," Phil says, blinking. Pepper nods encouragingly at him. "I think I should just catch my flight."

"I have my own jet," Stark insists. "It's not an issue, and you're _definitely_ coming with me."

Phil blames his emotional compromise, but he sighs heavily and follows Stark down the stairs to his workshop. Once there, Stark leads him to the ice cream truck and then throws his arms out in a universal _ta-daa_ gesture. Phil nods approvingly, because Vera is looking leaner and newer, the heavy panels that used to conceal the Iron Man armor hydraulics no longer weighing her down.

"Looks nice," Phil agrees with a nod.

"Come on," Stark says, getting into the driver's seat. His briefcase armor is already sitting next to him on the floor of the truck. "We're taking her out for one last spin."

"Last?" Phil asks with a raised eyebrow. "You planning on retiring from the ice cream business once I'm gone?"

"Last as a _team_ ," Stark says, and Phil has to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh as Stark's face immediately goes green when he realizes what he just said. "Not a word," Stark says, pointing a finger warningly at Phil. "You know what I meant."

"I didn't say anything." Phil laughs, and can't do anything but indulge Stark. Nick won't be expecting him in the office until tomorrow, anyway. He knows exactly what Stark's got planned, and there's maybe a small part of him that hopes it'll work, so he gets into the passenger seat and puts on his sunglasses. When he gives Stark a smile that's wider than he'd otherwise let on, Stark grins back, happy and relieved, and starts the truck.

The sun has gone golden in the late afternoon, and Phil feels oddly content. He still believes Stark could do well in the Avengers Initiative, and he knows Nick will consider the whole babysitting mission a failure, but Phil thinks they did some good in Malibu. They drive in silence for a while, before Stark pointedly clears his throat.

"So," he says, "speaking of team," and Phil's heart nearly jumps out of his chest for a moment. His head must swivel comically as he turns to look at Stark, because Stark barks out a quick laugh. "Don't get too excited, Agent, I'm still not joining Fury's little Scooby Gang or whatever. I was just thinking. About what you said. The armor and me and what happened when you got hurt…" Stark trails off, shrugging a little, then shakes his head quickly, like he's mentally scolding himself. "Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I'd--like to help?"

Phil carefully doesn't hold his breath as he waits for Stark to finish.

"Maybe like, in an advisory manner? Is that a job? Super hero squad advisor?"

Phil thinks about the potential of the Iron Man armor and wants to squee. "We sometimes take on outside consultants," he says and is proud of how calm he sounds. Forget hand to hand combat or firearms training; moments like these are when his training _really_ pays off.

"Great!" Stark says, tapping the steering wheel. "Sign me up for one of those. Consultant. That's it. But only if you're my liaison, okay? You understand, I suffer your presence because I must, but I don't want to risk ending up with someone worse, you know? You're the lesser of all the secret government evils, understand?"

That makes Phil smile, because Stark sounds so defensive. "I'll have the papers drawn up and sent to Pepper as soon as I get back," he promises, thinking, _Please don't change your mind, please please._

"Don't worry," Stark smirks, as if he's reading Phil's mind. "No take-backsies."

Phil's smile grows and he leans back in his seat, feeling ridiculously relaxed and relieved. "Thank you, Stark."

Stark huffs a little, like he doesn't know what to say, before bursting out, "Hey, look at that cat!" and Phil doesn't bring up the subject again.

It's not quite the mission goal he was sent here for, but for his part, he considers it to be mission completed.

*

The song of the day is _Ace of Spades_ , and kids, along with some scattered parents, have already started gathering at the end of the cul-de-sac when they park the ice cream truck by the curb. Phil pretends he's not avidly watching Clint's house out of the corner of his eye the whole time as Stark greets the kids with his arms wide open and starts handing out ice cream bars with great aplomb.

Phil watches the happy kids with their ice cream and thinks about Stark and everything he's learned about him in the months he's spent in Malibu. Stark throws around the word superhero a lot, but it's always so flippant. Like he enjoys the attention and the prestige it brings, but like he doesn't really believe it himself. Part of Phil wishes he possessed the lack of shame required to give Stark a compliment and actually tell him how much respect he's earned--how much _Phil_ respects him. Because whether Stark believes it or not, he's doing an excellent job with the whole superhero thing.

Phil thinks about Captain America and the work they do at SHIELD, and is happy their goals of keeping the world safe, of containing the weird shit, and of protecting people, are still being maintained. He thinks Captain America would have approved of Stark.

"Hey, Double-Oh-Sleepy," Stark says, and Phil jolts out of his thoughts to find Stark looking at him with an annoyed expression on his face, and holding out one of the Icelandic fruit bars. "Go fucking knock on his door, you asshole."

"Bad words," a kid pipes up from outside, and Stark's head whips around.

"Oh yeah? Are you the word police?" he asks, and the girl giggles.

Phil blinks and considers warning Stark off of meddling in his private life again, but he knows it'll have no effect. Sighing, Phil takes the bar and climbs out of the truck.

There's this thing that happens to Phil when he's in a firefight; it's almost like a slow-motion effect. His mind takes in and categorizes so many things all at once that time seems to slow down a little. He supposes that's part of what made him a good soldier, and makes him a good agent. It's not often it happens outside of combat situations, but it seems to be happening right here, right now, and Phil feels fucking ridiculous. He keeps his eyes on Clint's door and pretends he doesn't feel eyes on the back of his neck.

His heart is trying to work itself up in his chest, and Phil swallows against the lump in his throat in a vain attempt to keep himself calm.

Clint's door looks oddly intimidating once he's there, but one of Phil's defining characteristics is his strong belief that facing your fears is the best course of action, so when he raises his hand and raps his knuckles firmly against the wood, he doesn't even shake--and then he waits.

A moment passes, and there's no sound from inside. Phil waits another long, tense moment before he knocks again, more subdued this time--just in case Clint is in there and annoyed by the knocking.

When still nothing happens, Phil takes a step back and looks up at the door. Clint's house is quiet in the warm sunlight, and Phil sighs. It was probably too much to hope for anyway, that Clint would both be home and willing to open his door to him. In any case, he chooses to believe Clint's not home, because that's the least painful scenario.

Pulse quieting down and something like disappointment (that Phil refuses to acknowledge fully) settling in his chest, Phil heads back to the ice cream truck.

Stark doesn't have pity in his eyes when he returns, which Phil is very grateful for. Placing the fruit bar back in the freezer, Phil settles into the passenger seat without a word.

Stark hands out a few more ice cream bars before there's a lull in the action. There are kids of varying ages strewn over the cul-de-sac and the sidewalk and their lawns, slurping ice cream, and Phil doesn't look at Clint's house anymore.

"I'm sorry," Stark says quietly as he sits next to Phil.

"Not your fault," Phil says.

"You see, you say that," Stark says, wincing, "but I can't help but feel responsible."

Phil shakes his head. "I get it, Stark. Really. You were trying to protect me."

Stark scoffs. "No I wasn't."

Phil can't help but smile. "Yes, you were. And you did. I was the idiot who jumped straight to accusations of murder."

Stark winces again. "Ouch."

"Yeah," Phil agrees, and they sit in silence until a kid carefully knocks on the side of the truck.

"Mr. Iron Stark, may I please have another ice cream?"

Phil snorts at the _Mr. Iron Stark_ , and Stark claps his shoulder as he stands up. "Well, his loss," Stark says.

Phil's not sure he agrees, but this feels oddly like closure, so he'll take what he can get.

*

Stark's plane is ridiculously luxurious, and Phil allows himself to loosen his tie just a tiny fraction as he leans back in Stark's leather seats.

"ETA two hours," JARVIS informs them over the speakers, and Stark nods happily.

"Thank you, JARVIS." He looks at Phil and narrows his eyes a little. "Well, Agent? How do you feel? You're almost back in your charging station."

"Robot jokes," Phil mutters, rolling his eyes. "Your sense of humor gets ever more original."

"And that's another thing!" Stark argues, as if continuing an entirely different conversation. "Who talks like that, seriously? You're like an Oxford dictionary or something."

Phil only considers for a split second before saying, "Fuck no," and then keeps a straight face as Stark starts sputtering.

It takes several seconds before Stark recovers enough to start laughing, and once _that_ settles, he nods, like he's making a decision he's particularly pleased with. "I like you, Agent."

Phil looks at Stark, at the earnest, amused look on his face, before holding out a hand. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Stark."

"My friends call me Tony," Stark says as they shake, and that makes Phil hold his hand for an extra moment. Out of all the things he's accomplished on this mission, this is probably the most significant. Stark's eyes are warm and there's something like respect there, and Phil smiles.

"I'm sure they do, Mr. Stark," he says pleasantly, no hint of teasing in his voice, but Stark seems to get the point regardless.

They pull their hands back and Stark looks out the window briefly, a vaguely uncomfortable silence descending between them. Not one to let things sit for too long, Stark breaks the silence by clapping his hands together.

"Well, this got awkward in a hurry," Stark says. "I know just what we need to liven this flight up a little."

"No, no--," Phil starts to say, because he's seen the blueprints for Stark's modified jet and he knows what's coming, dammit, he knows--but it's too late. Stark cackles as the music starts and the stripper pole slots into place.

*

It doesn't take long for Phil to settle into a routine once he's back in New York. He's always been good at compartmentalizing, and keeping busy is still a wonderful distraction.

Phil goes to his physical therapy sessions and does his exercises and very carefully doesn't try to call Clint when he's at home in his apartment every night, overtime work expressly forbidden until he's further along in his recovery. Nick has him on desk duty while he continues healing, and Phil tries not to be resentful of all the extra paperwork he knows is being shuffled his way. He suspects it might be Nick's way of trying to help--though personally, Phil thinks if he really wanted to help, he'd give up that cushy office chair of his.

It's not that Phil's moping. He's too guarded about his private life for that, and he had what? Two dates with Clint? That's not enough to warrant moping, he tells himself. He's just a little out of sorts. It's been a long time since Phil's had anything even remotely like a romantic or sexual relationship with anyone else, and in his more cynical moments, Phil thinks this is why. He's very good at screwing things up for himself.

It hurts a lot, thinking about Clint, and Phil doesn't like it. He's naturally predisposed to dislike anything that creates reactions in him he can't control, physical or emotional, and when he thinks of Clint, he feels powerless. The memory of Clint's raspy laugh creates a lump in his throat and an ache in his chest, and the thought of Lorin's bright eyes zeroing in on an Icelandic fruit bar makes hurt churn in his gut. But in the end, Phil still loses himself in it, the memories of Clint's body next to his and the warm feeling of familiarity as he read to Lorin. He welcomes the hurt, because in the end, it's nothing more than what he deserves, isn't it?

*

The day before Phil's cleared to return to light field duties, Natasha comes back from California, and that very same evening she shows up at his door. Phil raises an eyebrow at her, but still steps aside to let her into his apartment when she holds up a brown paper bag and a small tub of ice cream.

"I've been told it's customary to do this when a good friend is going through a breakup," she informs him, and Phil frowns.

"Says who?"

"American TV," she explains, going to Phil's kitchen and digging out spoons for both of them. "A little on the nose maybe, but it's ice cream and liquor. Are you really going to object?"

Phil considers for a moment before shrugging and walking over to sit next to her at the counter. Natasha hands him a spoon. The ice cream is chocolate fudge brownie, and Phil can practically feel the calories settling on his belly with the first bite. He misses the metabolism of his youth, and he must have made a face, because Natasha scowls at him.

"Shut up, I'm old," Phil complains, relieved that he has her, someone who he can open up to, in ways he can't around Nick.

"Worth it, though?" she asks, and Phil nods.

They've made a sizeable dent into the ice cream before Natasha opens the vodka and just splashes it into the container. Phil's eye twitches, but he doesn't say anything. The bite of the liquor combined with the coolness of the ice cream feels surprisingly nice, and they eat in silence for a while.

"On the plus side," Natasha says, "we got Stark, right?"

"More or less," Phil agrees. "He signed on as a consultant for now, but…" He trails off, and Natasha smiles, lips pursed together.

"It's only a matter of time before he takes the leap." She finishes the thought for Phil, who nods.

"He's too curious to leave well enough alone. He'll want to be in the thick of the action, not on the sidelines. He likes getting his hands dirty."

Natasha shrugs and licks her spoon. "Maybe, but he could do that without us. We both know he came onboard because he respects you."

Phil blows out a quick breath and shakes his head a little. "Yeah. I'm not sure how to feel about that."

"Feel good about it," Natasha tells him firmly. "I've mentioned in my report, but I sincerely think Stark only respects a handful of people on this earth, so I say good on you."

Phil shrugs and goes to get a glass. All this talk about Stark is just bringing up more memories of Clint, and he's going to need more than the piddly splashes of vodka on the ice cream. "We'll see if it lasts. He's flying into New York next month," he explains.

"Heroic consulting going on already?"

"Financial," Phil says, finding a glass and pouring himself a couple of very generous fingers of vodka. "And partially personal. Director Fury is looking at expanding funding in the arctic circle."

Natasha's eyebrows fly up. "You mean--"

"Yeah," Phil says with a nod. "The Frostbite mission. Imagine what we could do if we find even just his shield?" Phil muses and for just a moment all thoughts of Clint are forgotten. Phil can't even fully wrap his mind around that prospect, Captain America's shield. R&D would have a cow over the vibranium, and Phil doesn't have nearly enough shame to pretend he wouldn't have about fifty thousand photos taken of himself holding it.

Then he remember's Clint's face as he asked with amusement, "Toned it down?" and Phil makes a face.

"Have you tried calling him?" Natasha asks, and Phil very distinctly remembers Pepper asking the exact same thing while he was still in the hospital. The two of them are scarily similar in a lot of ways, and he takes a moment to be relieved Natasha's stint at Stark Industries ended before they had the chance to befriend each other.

"I went over there with Stark and the ice cream truck before I left," Phil admits, because this is Natasha, and she won't judge him. Much. "No luck. If he wanted to talk to me, he probably would have by now."

"You sure about that?" Natasha asks scraping ice cream from the bottom of the container. "Maybe he's waiting for you to apologize?"

"I tried that."

"That was before you got shot, though. The near loss of someone you care about can be a powerful motivational tool, we both know that."

Phil grimaces. "I don't know. Seems a little manipulative, don't you think? I don't even know if he'd pick up if I called."

Natasha shrugs. "I don't have a problem with manipulative," she says, and although Phil disagrees with her, it's refreshing to know she's blunt about things. "You could leave a message."

Phil scoffs and sips his vodka. "I think given the original--issues between us, manipulative is the wrong approach to this situation. Besides, who leaves an apology via voicemail? And what would I even say? Sorry I mistook you for a murderer? I'm sure that'll go over well."

"You know, he's not innocent in this," Natasha points out. "He lied to you as well."

"Yeah, well, he had reasons," Phil mumbles, and thinks about waiting and waiting in SHIELD's medical facility, thinks about Clint's voice, _I'm so fucking mad at you right now_ , before everything had gone black. He eats the last little bit of ice cream

Natasha's shoulders move a little, and she stretches a little bit, the toe of her boot kicking lightly against one leg of the stool she's sitting on. "Well, if you ask me, I'd almost say you're being a coward, except everyone knows Phil Coulson doesn't get scared of anything."

Phil snorts. "Is that the latest from the watercooler?"

"That's old hat," Natasha says with a warm chuckle. "The latest rumor says you were the one who took Director Fury's eye."

Phil pales. "God, don't even joke about that. If it gets back to the Director, he won't be happy."

"Please, you think he doesn't already know?"

Phil supposes she has a point there, and sighs. "At least tell me you're not the one who started it."

"Don't change the subject," Natasha warns, but there's a twinkle of humor in her eyes and it might as well be an admission of guilt. "This is about your breakup."

There's that word again, and Phil frowns. "It wasn't a breakup, really. I'm not even sure it was a relationship."

Natasha gives him a look that says she's spectacularly unimpressed, and it's about as emotive as she ever gets. It's enough to put the ghost of a smile on Phil's face, because he still remembers the stonefaced young woman she used to be. The fact that she lets her guard down this much around Phil is a large part of why Phil trusts her with the details of his private life--even when she harasses him about it.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Natasha says, and she sounds sarcastic. "There was never enough trust between the two of you to call it a relationship, right?"

It's like a punch to the gut. Phil thinks about the amount of trust Clint must have placed in him when he took a chance on him, with Lorin and everything, and something inside of him _aches_. It's like something breaks in him then, like he'd been numb since the fight at Clint's house, and he didn't even know it, and for the first time he realizes that he misses Clint and Lorin so badly his _bones_ hurt. He wants to be a part of their family, and he fucked it all up, and he's lost them both.

Phil's fingers tighten around his spoon as he tries to maintain his composure in front of Natasha.

Natasha's face softens in a way that's both comforting and slightly smug, and Phil knows he's been played. It's hard to resent her for it at the moment, because he's busy trying to make sense of everything he's thinking and feeling.

Reaching over, Natasha places a hand on his shoulder and rubs it soothingly, carefully avoiding any area that might carry lingering stiffness from his gunshot.

Phil doesn't say anything else, and is just grateful she's there at all.

*

The funk follows him through sleep after Natasha leaves, and into work the next day, and the day after that.

Logically, Phil knows there are a lot of reasons why it would have never worked between him and Clint anyway. Even if the trust issues (on both sides) and lies (also on both sides) and invasions of privacy (okay, that one was all Phil) weren't a problem, there is still the fact that Phil lives in New York and Clint lives in California, and did Phil really want to live permanently in all that heat?

Then he realizes that he'd just automatically placed himself in California in this hypothetical situation, and he thinks about the beach and imagines taking Lorin there on a day off, maybe throwing a beach ball around some, enjoying the sun with Clint--and he wants to put his head down on his desk and cry.

It's the first time in decades, possibly ever, that the notion of a family has seemed realistically appealing to Phil, and not just some wistful pipedream. Sure, there were a lot of issues, but there's a sappy, romantic, idealistic part of Phil that torments him and keeps trying to convince him it could have worked out. Trust issues and lies and all. If he hadn't broken into Clint's place--if he hadn't crossed that line. And the fact that _Phil's_ the one who took that step and fucked it up? That hurts.

The pain sits deep in him for days, and his nights are restless and lonely. He stays in his big, comfortable bed, and remembers being squeezed up against Clint in his tiny, little twin bed, and he remembers being--happy.

Phil puts his pillow over his head in frustration and pretends his eyes aren't wet.

He's not sure how Nick knows, but the next morning when he comes into work, Nick's chair is behind Phil's desk. It doesn't really help as much as he thought it would, and he still sleeps like shit during the night, but at least getting through the days where he's stuck in the office becomes easier. Turns out time flies when you feel like you're being cradled by a soft, leather-clad cloud.


	7. Chapter 7

The day that Stark comes to town for their early morning meeting, Phil's sleep deprived and tempted to call off sick, because the idea of seeing Stark again brings associations he's not eager to deal with. Except he _knows_ how reluctant Stark had initially been to sign on, and he knows how Stark feels about his father, and he knows the favor they're about to ask him. So when he gets the call that Stark and Pepper are both there, on time even, Phil knows there's no way he can _not_ go.

"Bring back money," Nick tells him in passing as he heads downstairs to meet Stark, and Phil nods tightly and tries to think of Captain America instead of Clint's face when he told Stark, "I think _that's_ what makes you a hero."

Pepper's the first person Phil sees, and she greets him with a wide smile and a warm, "Phil, so good to see you again!"

"You too, Ms. Potts," Phil says, because he likes the way her brows knit together, but this is work related so he figures formalities are called for. Her expression clears anyway, when he leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"How are you doing, Phil?" she says next, more quietly, and Phil knows exactly what she's asking.

"Fine," Phil says, feigning ignorance. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Pepper looks like she might have something to say about that, but just then Stark clears his throat loudly and noisily from behind her.

Stark looks pretty much exactly like Phil had expected; dressed in a suit jacket that costs more than Phil's entire paycheck, a tie in something that looks like very, very expensive silk over a linen shirt--and too big jeans, with something that looks suspiciously like slippers peeking out at the bottom. Phil's mind boggles. It's like Stark decided to get properly dressed in the morning, and then stopped once he got to his waist.

His jeans have oil stains on one thigh, right near the area where Stark's hand is hanging loosely by his side, and he's wearing green-tinted sunglasses. In one hand, he's carrying a dark colored energy drink of some sort in an oddly shaped bottle. Phil briefly wonders if he's playing to the image of eccentric billionaire on purpose, and then is hit with the somewhat disturbing realization that he's missed Stark.

"What. No kiss for me?" Stark asks, narrowing his eyes. "You look like shit."

Phil rolls his eyes. "It's good to see you too, Stark."

Stark continues on, undeterred. "Are you still broken up about the hot dad?" he asks suspiciously. "Is that what this is about?"

The mention of Clint makes something draw together and force the air out of Phil's lungs for a moment, and he hopes it doesn't actually show, even though he feels like it does. Phil clears his throat and gestures to the conference room he's scheduled for them, resolutely refusing to answer Stark.

"Shall we?"

"Fine, whatever, be that way," Stark says and breezes past Phil into the room, even as Pepper mouths _Sorry_ at him.

They get seated at the table which seems oversized with just three people in the room. Phil is in the process of unpacking the tablet with the information about Operation: Frostbite, when Stark pulls out his own tablet, and immediately takes control of the big screen in the room.

"All right, lets get this show on the road," Stark says with a sigh that's a lot more long-suffering than Phil thinks he really means. "How much money do you need?"

Phil isn't terribly surprised, but he still blinks as classified information about Frostbite starts rolling across the screen, and Pepper's jaw drops in outrage.

"Tony!" she says sternly at the same time as Phil scowls.

"Director Fury will seriously hurt you if he finds out you hacked into our system," he informs Stark, who seems completely unbothered.

"What is he, like a hundred? I can take him," Stark says confidently.

Phil's frown deepens. "I wouldn't count on it," he mutters, before putting the cover back on his own tablet and sighing. "Well, since you seem to know why we're here, let me at least tell you a little bit about it?"

"Please do," Pepper says with a snide look in Tony's direction.

"Our goal for Operation: Frostbite is to retrieve certain artifacts associated with the disappearance of Captain Steve Rogers in 1945. The main goal is his shield, which as I'm sure you're aware, was a prototype first created by your father. The material used--"

"Vibranium," Tony interjects, "I know, super rare, everything they had went into the shield, yadda yadda. We still have some early versions lying around, falling to bits, somewhere."

"Right," Phil agrees. "Well, we'd like to find the real deal and analyze it. By all accounts, it was completely vibration absorbent. SHIELD could do a lot of good things with that."

"Or a lot of bad," Stark says somewhat bitterly, and Phil respects the man enough not to argue the point. He knows SHIELD doesn't always appear on the up and up to the public, but he trusts Nick, even when Nick doesn't tell him everything.

"Mr. Stark, we're in the business of protecting people," Phil says as earnestly as he can. "We always have been."

"Really," says Stark, and he doesn't sound convinced, but he follows it with a shrug. "So you need my money?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Phil admits, which is--a major understatement, but Stark doesn't need to know that.

"What do I get in return?"

"You'll be kept in the loop and you'll get access to our research surrounding the vibranium once it's found."

Stark narrows his eyes and Pepper sighs. "Phil," she says, like Phil's missing a very important point. "You do realize we could just fund our own search, right?"

"You could," Phil agrees, and ignores Stark's shit-eating grin. "But that wouldn't come with access to our Pegasus Project."

He can tell the exact moment Stark takes an interest. His entire demeanor changes, even though he doesn't really move in his seat. It's in the way his eyes widen ever so slightly before narrowing again behind the green-tinted sunglasses he wears, and in the way his shoulders stiffen just a little.

Pepper notices Phil noticing, and she rolls her eyes.

"For heaven's sake, Tony, you're like a cat."

Tony turns to make a face at her, and Phil notices his fingers flying over the tablet in his lap, even though he's clearly trying to be discreet about it. "You won't find anything about it in our files," Phil tells him confidently. "The information about the Pegasus Project is kept--elsewhere. It does, however, concern an object your father fished out of the sea in his search for Captain Rogers."

Tony's fingers stop twitching against the tablet, and Phil smiles as he slides a thin folder over to Pepper and starts collecting his things. He knows when a battle is won.

"That was lost some time during the 60s," Tony says, "before I was even born."

Phil keeps smiling. "Was it?"

Tony, who was in the middle of taking a swig from his oddly-shaped bottle, chokes and sputters. "Are you--are you--what--"

"I'll let you mull it over," Phil says diplomatically. "I've left our budget proposals and project outlines with Ms. Potts. You have my number. Contact me when you make a decision."

Phil's not entirely sure, but he thinks he sees Pepper laugh into her hand as he leaves the conference room. If nothing else, messing with Stark has cheered him up some, and he just went almost fifteen full minutes without thinking about Clint. It's progress.

*

It takes just over five full hours for Stark to call him, which is longer than Phil thought it would take, but less time than he'd feared.

"Mr. Stark," Phil says.

"We're having dinner," Stark says in lieu of a greeting. "Tonight. We have a lot to talk about, and I have other things to do in the meantime, so we're having a dinner meeting instead."

"Sir, yes, sir," Phil says sarcastically, and a sound that's suspiciously like Stark blowing a raspberry at him comes through the phone.

"Don't sass me, Agent. We both know we need each other right now."

"Need is a strong word," Phil deadpans, happy that Stark can't see the smile on his face, and Stark downright growls down the line.

"Marco Polo, 8:30 p.m."

Phil sighs. "You always ask so nicely," he says, but the line's already dead.

*

Marco Polo is in the heart of Manhattan, and terrifyingly upscale. Phil's been there on business on a couple of occasions, but this is the first time, when he meets the host at the front desk and says, "Stark," that the host actually smiles at him. On previous visits, Phil's unassuming looks have gotten him a glance and a slightly raised eyebrow, probably thinking that a banker or lawyer or whatever they've categorized him as, can't afford to dine there.

On this visit, however, the host's smile is wide and gracious, and he says, "Of course, Mr. Coulson, please follow me!" and then he personally leads Phil through the main dining area and into a private dining area to the side.

The private dining area is quiet and has more muted lighting than the rest of the restaurant. There's a table set for two there, and Phil's oddly disappointed that Pepper won't be joining them.

Thanking the host, Phil sits down and is quickly greeted by a short, blonde server, who introduces herself as Ronnie and immediately starts recommending wines.

"I think I'd better wait for my host," Phil says as diplomatically as he can, because he suspects, but doesn't wish to assume, Stark will pay for this.

Five, ten minutes go by, and Phil glances at his watch to confirm that it's now past their agreed meeting time. He's not terribly surprised--it is Stark, after all--but still, he's starting to feel self-conscious and weird, sitting here in this empty dining area with nothing but his water glass as company.

The sound of Phil's phone is jarringly loud in the silence, and when he picks up, Stark is apologetic and rambling on the other end.

"Agent, baby, sorry, so sorry, I seem to have double booked myself, you can blame the normally flawless Ms. Potts, but I won't be able to make our dinner date. However, I've taken the liberty of setting up a meeting with Ol' Cyclops in the morning, where we can discuss the finer points of the Pegasus Project and the access I was promised, in exchange for my financial support of your Operation: Frostbite, yes?"

Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I came all the way down here for nothing, Stark?"

"Not for nothing," Stark says defensively. "Have dinner. On me, okay? I've already spoken to the staff, they all know me and they know how to bill me. It'll be worth it, Agent, trust me on this one."

It's an odd word choice, but before Phil can ask Stark what he means, Stark hangs up on him. Phil sighs and puts away the phone just as Ronnie walks back into the room.

"Are we ready to begin?"

Phil sighs and nods, because even though he feels more awkward than ever, faced with the prospect of eating an entire meal alone in this private dining area, he's not turning down Marco Polo's food when someone else is footing the bill.

"Guess I'll be eating alone," he says a little sheepishly, feeling almost as awkward as his most bumbling work personas.

Ronnie frowns at him. "Alone? I thought there was one more person joining you?"

Phil is about to explain that Stark had cancelled, when a very familiar, raspy voice floats to him, rapidly approaching.

"...and how long do you think that'll take?" Clint is saying.

There's a pause, which gives Phil just enough time to choke on air and briefly consider actually ducking under the table and hiding, because _Clint is here, what the fuck_.

"No, just hurry up," Clint says as he enters the room behind the host, phone pressed to his ear. "I get hives if I stay in places like this too long," then adds, "no offense," to the host.

The host gives Clint a tight, unamused hint of a smile before disappearing again, and that's about the time Clint spots Phil, and his jaw drops.

Phil's frozen, he can't move. His butt is glued to his seat and his heart is beating so hard he can hear his own pulse in his ears. Clint stands by the entrance to the dining area, phone still at his ear, and long, tense moments pass, and all Phil can think about is how Clint's eyes are even more intense than he can remember.

"Um," says Ronnie, clearly uncomfortable as she looks from Phil to Clint and back again. "I'll come back in a little bit." She disappears quickly, at which point Clint twitches and frowns a little.

"That's uncool, Stark," he says into the phone. Phil thinks he hears maniacal laughter as Clint hangs up.

Phil swallows, and Clint looks around, frown melting away into an expression Phil can't quite read.

"So," Clint says, rubbing his neck in a familiar gesture that makes Phil's insides twist. "Fancy restaurant, huh?"

"Stark's suggestion," Phil says, and wow, his mouth has gone completely dry, hasn't it?

Clint nods and huffs a little, but he sounds amused more than anything. "Of course it was," he says, before cautiously approaching the table and sitting down. "So I guess he wants us to talk?"

Phil can't take his eyes off Clint. He's not even sure he's blinking. He might not be blinking, his eyes feel a little weird. Clint looks much the same. His hair is slightly different, like maybe he got a haircut at some point since Phil last saw him. He's wearing a tie and gray slacks that both look almost comically pricier than his worn button-down shirt. Stark probably loaned him clothes. Phil takes in Clint's fingers twitching on the tabletop, remembers them doing the same thing in an interrogation room in LA, and he desperately wants to reach out and touch.

"How did you," Phil starts to ask, and then has to try again when his voice cracks a little. "How did you get here?"

Clint shrugs. "Stark flew me in. Said it was important, something about the charities he set up in the neighborhood, and--well, there was this whole big thing, I won't get into it, Stark can be very…"

"Convincing?" Phil guesses.

"Persistent," Clint says, and yeah--that makes sense.

They remain in silence for a few more moments, and Phil wonders what to do next, what to say. There are so many things he's been wanting to say to Clint, and now that he has him here, he doesn't know where to begin.

"Just for the record," Clint says, and Phil blinks, realizing that the silence has stretched on again. "I'm not very good at making apologies, so y'know, sorry if I fuck it up."

And _that_ brings Phil completely back around, because wait, what?

"Uh, what?" he says intelligently.

"Apology," Clint says, looking sheepish. "I'm not sure how to make it up to you? But I will if you'll let me?"

Phil stares. And stares some more. And then fights the urge to slam his head into the table.

He's not sure what his own face looks like, but suddenly Clint gets a horrible frown on his face again, and he scrambles to organize his thoughts into coherent words. "No, no," Phil says quickly, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "Okay, I--let me just be clear here. You think _you_ have anything to apologize for?"

That horrible frown is staying put on Clint's face, and Phil wants to grab him and kiss him, because he looks so sad. "Well, yeah," Clint says, wincing. "I probably should have told you the full story of, you know, Bobbi and Lorin and SHIELD and everything."

Phil reacts on instinct, reaching out for Clint and gripping his twitching fingers, lacing them with his own. Something hot spikes in him when Clint grips back. Stroking one finger along Clint's calloused hands, Phil shakes his head.

"This is the most--I can't believe--Clint, the last thing you said to me was that you were mad at me, and then I never heard from you again. I thought you didn't want to see me!"

Clint's face does a complicated thing, and guilt and relief flash across his features.

"Jesus, Phil, I said that because I thought you were dying, it was a stressful moment for me, okay? And then after, I thought you didn't want to see _me_ ," he says, and his fingers are still clinging to Phil's across the table. "I thought you were angry about the Bobbi thing."

They're both idiots, apparently.

Taking a steadying breath, Phil decides to go for broke. "Clint, I don't blame you for anything, okay? You told me what you could, what you felt comfortable with, you protected your son. Would I have preferred fewer lies? Absolutely. But when I say that, I mean I would have preferred fewer lies from my side as well." Phil swallows again, because the words are tough to get out, sticky with shame and desperation in his throat. "Clint, I'm the one who needs to apologize, not you."

"I think we both do," Clint says, wincing.

"I came to your house with Stark," Phil admits. "With the ice cream truck. Nobody answered the door."

Clint chuckles a little, and there's a slight hysterical edge to it. "Jeez, did it ever occur to you I just might not be home?"

"I figured it was probably the case," Phil agrees, "I just wasn't sure. I--what I did..." He trails off and looks down for a moment, he can't help it. "It wasn't--a good thing to do."

Clint ducks his head a little to catch Phil's eye again. "No," Clint agrees, but his tone is warm. "It wasn't. But what I did wasn't a good thing to do, either. And I've had a lot of weeks to be angry about how everything went down, and a lot of weeks to miss you."

Phil's pulse is rushing in his ears again. "You miss me?"

Clint nods once and smiles, more easily than he probably feels, Phil can tell, but it's the same smile he remembers from their date at Pacific Park, the same smile he can't get out of his mind when he's trying to fall asleep at night. "I miss you," Clint confirms. "We both do."

"Where is Lorin, anyway?" Phil asks.

"Kate's watching him," Clint explains. "Apparently Stark knows her dad and they're in New York at the moment and they have more money than God, you know how it goes. Kate's met Lorin before, I trust them, and Lorin basically took one look at their home theater--did you know people get those built? 'Cause I didn't, and it's freakin' awesome--anyway, Lorin took one look at their home theater and it was like I didn't even exist."

Phil nods and smiles in amusement, but he's honestly still stuck on how _Lorin misses him._

"He's still asking for those fucking fruit bars," Clint says, a little ruefully.

Phil fights the embarrassment flaring up in him. "Well, Stark claims he's still doing his ice cream truck thing," he says.

"He does," Clint confirms. "We still talk." Then he pauses to catch Phil's eye again and says, "It's just not the same without you."

Phil looks at Clint's eyes, the indeterminable color, the strength and sureness of his gaze, and Phil wants to throw himself across the table and kiss every word right out of Clint's mouth.

"This is insane," Phil mumbles. "We're both liars. I'm a horrible person, basically. We've had one date--"

"Two," Clint interjects.

"--two dates, and between the two of us we could probably write the book on trust issues. There's nothing normal about this!"

Clint shrugs. "I told you, I was interested in a third, and a fourth, and a fifth date," he says. "Besides, I'm an ex-Carnie who gave up a chance at the Olympics to raise my son, whose mother is a super spy. I'm starting to think _normal_ isn't in the cards for me." He says it easily, like he doesn't mind.

The emotions in Phil are threatening to overflow, and he has to try twice before he can speak again. "Clint," he says, voice breaking on the word, "Clint, will you forgive me? Please forgive me. I am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything, for invading your privacy, for hurting you, for--," he fights the urge to laugh hysterically, "--for accusing you of murder…!"

Clint leans back a little and for a horrible moment, Phil thinks he's pulling away completely, but instead he lifts his free hand to run across his face and then looks awkwardly at Phil again. "Listen, I--I do get why, it's just. It still wasn't so much fun."

Phil swallows. "I know."

"But I meant it, you know. I don't think keeping the truth about my affiliation with SHIELD from you was the right thing to do, either."

"I think maybe mine was worse," Phil says with a wince.

Clint blinks for a moment, and then looks amused again. "Is it a competition now?"

Phil feels his face get hot, and shakes his head quickly. "No, I didn't, I wasn't trying to--"

"Phil, Phil," Clint interrupts him. "I know what you meant. I'm just giving you a hard time." Phil's about to breathe a sigh of relief when Clint adds, "But every time you accuse me of murder, it's gonna get tougher for you to make it up to me, fair warning."

It really shouldn't work, it really shouldn't, because Phil still sort of feels like a total dick and none of it changes the fact that they're both awful liars with trust issues, but Phil can't help it. Clint's remark draws a chuckle from him that's threatening to become a full-on laugh. "You know, you don't get to use that excuse forever," he warns Clint.

Clint smiles at him, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and teeth on display. "That mean you plan on sticking around?"

Phil's chuckle dies as tension springs back up in his throat. "Do you want me to stick around?"

Clint looks at him like he's just said the dumbest thing. "Of course I want you to stick around. If I didn't want that, I would have walked right out of this stupid fancy place the second I saw you. Phil," he says, leaning forward and gripping Phil's fingers more tightly, "I _miss_ you. I don't know what the fuck it is. I said after Bobbi that the SHIELD thing was no good for me, and I know there are logistical issues too, I mean, we don't even live on the same coast, y’know? But--you, I don't know, you just…" He sighs in clear frustration, trying to find the words. "We _gel_ , you know?"

"I know what you mean," Phil agrees, thinking of Clint and the spark he'd felt the first time he ran after Clint and offered Lorin a fruit bar.

"Plus," Clint says, smirking, "the sex was really hot."

"I'll give you guys some more time," says Ronnie, who's chosen that particular moment to attempt to approach them again, and spins on her heels.

Clint looks like he choked on something sour and Phil has to grip the edge of the table with his free hand to hold back a laugh, even as he knows without question that his ears are turning bright red.

"So," says Clint when they've both regained some semblance of control. "Wanna get out of here?"

The implication is obvious, all the more so for how Clint looks at Phil, with a self-satisfied grin that's vaguely dirty in the way his upper lip curls a little. Heat pools in Phil's belly and he can feel himself harden in his pants almost instantly at the thought of getting Clint naked and sweaty again, when only an hour ago he'd been trying to write Clint off as a closed chapter of his life.

The idea that he could have lost Clint doesn't sit well with Phil, and with an almost laughable resolve to ensure that doesn't happen, to reassure himself that Clint is here and wants to be here with him, Phil stands up and pulls Clint to his feet as well. "Let's go," he says.

"Where do you live?" Clint asks, sounding curious and turned on all at once.

"Brooklyn." Phil sighs, because Clint's suddenly right in his space and Phil's cock is still growing fat in his pants, and he is briefly struck by the urge to just sweep everything off the table and have Clint right then and there. Brooklyn is so far away!

"That's far," Clint says, and he sounds calm, but his breath has grown a little heavier, a little more labored. "Stark sort of--he got me a hotel room here. In Manhattan."

It's Phil's turn to smirk then because of _course_ Stark did, and--dammit, this probably means Phil will actually have to do something nice for Stark. He refuses to think of it as _owing_ Stark anything, because that thought might just be too much for him to handle. "Lead the way," he says, and gestures to the door.

"Don't have to ask me twice." Clint grins and gives Phil a kiss on the mouth before moving away--just a quick, hard press of his lips against Phil's--but it's enough to make Phil have visions of fucking Clint over the fancy dining table again. Their hands are still linked together and Phil lets Clint lead him away, happiness and anticipation bubbling inside him.

Ronnie, who's been hovering outside the doorway, is the consummate professional when they pass her, but Phil can see the slight hint of amusement on her face all the same. "Have a nice evening, Mr. Coulson, Mr. Barton," she nods.

"Hey," Phil says, pausing briefly in his step, "I'm sorry to waste your time, I didn't mean to--"

"I assure you," Ronnie says pleasantly, "Mr. Stark has made sure the waitstaff involved have been properly compensated."

Phil nods, happy with that, and as they leave the restaurant and exit onto the street, Clint smiles and shakes his head fondly at Phil. "You're amazing," he says.

Phil feels awkward and happy and in complete disbelief that this is actually happening; that Clint missed him and Clint is here with him now, holding his hand and leading him through the evening throng of New Yorkers and tourists, and he thinks Clint's got it all backwards. Phil's not the amazing one, not by a long shot.

*

Stark has put Clint up in a hotel that under any other circumstances would have probably intimidated them both. As it is, given Clint's reaction to the restaurant, Phil's surprised Clint accepted Stark's offer to begin with--but now, Clint's fingers squeezing his in tense anticipation as they ride the elevator up to his floor, Phil's glad he did.

"I have to pick up Lorin in about an hour," Clint says into the silence of the elevator. Phil can see Clint's reflection in the shiny panel by the elevator buttons, and he smiles a little.

"You anticipate that being a problem?"

Clint catches his eye in the reflection and smiles back. "Might want to take my time with you," he says, and Phil has to lock his knees in place just so he won't sink down and put his face in Clint's crotch right then and there.

He must make some sort of small movement or maybe a slight noise in his throat, he's not sure, but Clint laughs softly at him and then slides two fingers along the inside of his sweaty palm. When the elevator doors open, Phil's sorely tempted to run out, except he doesn't know what room Clint is in. Fortunately, the same sense of urgency seems to have hit Clint, because he walks rapidly down the hallway until they're in front of his room, and finally lets go of Phil's hand so he can get his keycard out of his pants and unlock the door.

The moment Phil's inside Clint's room and the door has closed behind them, Clint is on him. Phil feels like he's sinking, and it's the greatest feeling in the world. Clint's mouth is bruising his, tongue pushing its way in and licking along Phil's teeth, as Phil tugs desperately at Clint's tie and shirt.

Undressing is a messy and clumsy affair, and Phil catches only glimpses of the fancy room as they stumble their way towards one of the beds. Phil stubs his toe on a corner while kicking off his own pants and then almost elbows Clint in the face trying to help him get his undershirt off, and they laugh together at the whole situation. It's worth it, though, when they're standing next to the bed and Phil finally has Clint in his boxers. Phil's already naked, his own cock hard between his legs and demanding attention, but he has to slow down, pausing the proceedings to take a step back and admire Clint's body.

Clint's a fit guy, and Phil still can't get enough of his arms, muscles clearly defined under the veins of his forearms. His chest is bare, which Phil's fairly certain is a vanity thing, because Clint's got enough of a dusting of hair elsewhere that it seems like there should be a small patch in the middle of his torso as well, to match the dark trail leading down into his underwear. His boxers are dark and tented by his erection, an inviting outline that makes Phil's mouth water. Clint leers at him and flexes his muscles in a silly pose.

"I missed you," Phil says before Clint can say something stupid like, _Like what you see?_ because they both know Phil _really_ likes what he sees.

Clint laughs and then, making a show of it, he gyrates his hips and pulls his boxers down and off, before twirling them over his head and flinging them across the room. Phil watches as they sail through the air and land perfectly on the doorknob, before turning back to look at Clint again, his hard cock out in the open and drooling slightly at the tip.

"You look hungry," Clint snickers.

Phil doesn't answer. He doesn't have words left right now. Instead, he steps closer and grinds his crotch into Clint's a couple of times, which makes Clint groan. His eyes flutter closed and he grabs at Phil's hips, toppling them both onto the bed, lying across it with their legs dangling off the side.

Immediately, Phil slides down and sucks Clint into his mouth, because he's missed that cock, and he's dreamed about feeling its weight against his tongue. Phil likes blowjobs, giving and receiving, and he still remembers the amazing feeling of being allowed to just _thrust_ and fuck Clint's mouth, and he's hellbent on giving Clint an experience to rival that.

If the way Clint groans again and throws an arm over his eyes is any indication, Phil's doing a pretty good job of it so far. Phil hums in satisfaction and licks along Clint's shaft, focusing on his breathing. Clint's dick twitches in his mouth and one of Clint's hands flails on the bed next to them, and Phil has to reach down and take himself in hand just to make sure he doesn't go off prematurely, because Clint's making these little sounds that make it hard to see straight.

"Fuck, Phil," Clint breathes when Phil manages to relax enough to take him all the way down at the same time as he reaches up to scrape a nail across one of Clint's hard nipples, and Phil feels pride and horniness swell in him, because Clint sounds out of breath and desperate, voice raspier than normal, and _Phil_ did that to him! Phil wants to laugh and cry all at once, except he can't because he's got Clint's cock in his mouth, and he thought he'd never get to experience this again, never get to be close to Clint or his perfect cock again.

Above him, Clint's breathing is getting labored, and Phil closes his eyes, focusing to increase the suction. "God, Phil," Clint moans, and he might make other noises, Phil's no longer sure, because his own pulse is deafening in his ears and his jaw is getting just tired enough that he's started making slurping noises. When small dribbles of spit and precome slip out of the corner of his mouth, one of Clint's hands fumbles its way to his head, to stroke through his hair.

Knees perched precariously on the edge of the bed, Phil has to let go of his own cock to gently fondle Clint's balls, but it's worth it for the way Clint twitches on the bed, his whole body tensing. When Phil opens his eyes he can see Clint's abs contracting and releasing, and Phil doesn't have enough limbs to touch everywhere he wants to right now.

"Shit, Phil, I'm close," Clint warns, voice tight, and Phil feels ridiculously smug for absolutely no reason. "Wait, stop," Clint says, pulling at Phil's shoulders. "Get up here."

Phil lets Clint pull him up, and does not--absolutely _not_ \--make a pitiful whimpering sound as his mouth suddenly feels hollow and empty without Clint's dick. "What?" he asks, but then Clint pulls him close, legs splaying open so Phil can settle between them, as he licks his way across the slight mess on Phil's jaw, and--oh. Phil can't stop his hips from pressing forward, because suddenly his semi-neglected dick is pressed right up alongside Clint's, and that feels too amazing to object.

Clint pulls his head back a little and laughs, and Phil's not quite sure what exactly Clint's laughing at, but whatever it is he isn't embarrassed in the least. Phil thinks he will do anything just to be able to hear Clint laugh as much as possible. It's the best sound, and it makes Phil's insides twist in an unfamiliar way that's both weird and pleasant at the same time.

Leaning heavily on his elbows, Phil bows his head and kisses Clint again, loving that he _can_. He's missed Clint's mouth, and he just wants to stay here forever and make out with Clint on this ridiculously expensive hotel bed.

Making a small noise at the back of his throat, Clint pushes one hand insistently between their bodies to grasp Phil's dick firmly, and Phil's heart skips a beat in his chest. "God," he mutters against Clint's lips, because Clint's grip is just tight enough and he immediately sets a perfect pace, stripping Phil's cock fast and expertly.

Clint moves away just far enough to mumble, "I missed you too, you know," before licking back into Phil's mouth. Phil breathes heavily through his nose, but the slick sound of Clint's fist moving on him, the occasional noise that escapes Clint--it's all too much. His hips are moving now, almost of their own accord, pushing into Clint's warm hand, and it's far better than any handjob has any right to be. Phil's surprised to realize how close he is, pulse racing and blood rushing in his ears. Pulling out of the kiss, Phil bows his head and pushes his nose against Clint's neck and warns, "Clint, Clint, I'm--"

Clint interrupts him, "I know, do it," sucking a bruise into Phil's shoulder. "Come on, Phil, come on me."

Phil's orgasm rolls across him like a wave, and he's drowning in sensations; in the way Clint's fingers curl around him, in the way his cock pulses between their bodies, in the way Clint moans underneath him. Phil's eyes squeeze shut involuntarily, his toes curl, and one of his legs twitches violently against the bed. For a brief moment he's not sure how he'll ever be able to leave this bed again.

He comes down from it slowly, pulse settling down even as Clint squeezes the last drops from him.

"Jesus," Phil breathes, collapsing on top of Clint. Clint just chuckles in his ear and takes the weight like it's nothing.

The pull of sleep is strong, but Phil can still feel Clint's own cock pressing against him, hard in the mess Phil left behind. He's instantly embarrassed, because he wanted to make Clint feel good and instead ended up going off like a rocket.

"Phil?' Clint asks when Phil freezes. In lieu of answering, Phil just moves back down Clint's body to suck his cock back into his mouth, and above him Clint inhales sharply. "Fuck, Phil--"

Pressing his tongue firmly against the underside of Clint's dick, Phil bobs his head more vigorously than before. Clint's messy with Phil's come and his own precome, but Phil revels in it, pushes his face into Clint's crotch to take him as deeply as he can, before swiping two fingers through the mess and sliding them down past Clint's balls.

"God," Clint groans above him, voice deeper than normal. His legs part further and he pulls his knees up to give Phil better access, and then he groans again, louder, when Phil slides a finger into him.

It's a balancing act, requiring a lot of focus, kneeling while they're sideways on the bed with his mouth on Clint's cock and his finger in Clint's ass. Still, Phil thinks, this is addicting, the way Clint's body moves underneath him. His cock twitches in Phil's mouth and it seems to grow harder as Phil's finger searches for, and finds, its target.

The sound Clint makes when Phil curls his fingertip and _presses_ is somewhere between a moan and a yell, and it's enough to make Phil's own cock give a feeble twitch between his legs. Humming again, Phil sucks harder, swiping his tongue across the head of Clint's cock on every upstroke, making Clint's entire body tense up.

"Phil," Clint says, breathy and pleading, "Phil, Phil--"

Phil curls his finger again, takes Clint deep, and on the next upstroke, Clint groans above him long and low and dirty, and comes into Phil's mouth, body trembling faintly. Phil catches it all, waits patiently until Clint's calmed down, before swallowing and pulling his finger out of Clint's body. Phil's jaw feels sore and he's exhausted, but looking at Clint now, boneless and splayed out on the bed with his eyes closed and his arms flung haphazardly to the side--yeah, it was completely worth it.

"Good fucking God," Clint says on a laugh, opening his eyes just a little to look at Phil.

Phil's heart does a weird flip-flop in his chest, and there's a surge of fondness in him that makes it hard to draw a breath all of a sudden. He has to lie down, halfway on top of Clint, and put his nose back against Clint's neck in order to settle himself, and Clint laughs again, a quiet chuckle that rumbles through his chest, as their breathing slows.

Fingers lazily stroking across Clint's skin, Phil has hope in his chest and happiness in his gut, and he dimly thinks he might never want to move.

*

"I met Bobbi after Barney died," Clint says into the silence.

Phil blinks out of the near-sleep he'd fallen into, and then decides to not speak, letting Clint tell the story on his own terms.

"She told me that she was the agent who'd turned Barney away initially. She said she was busy working a different case, she didn't want to deal with some no-name run of the mill criminal. She was the one who told me he was dead."

Clint hesitates a little. "I was very angry with her at first. Barney didn't choose you guys at random, you know? It wasn't like the cops were gonna give a crap, so he thought you guys were his best shot at staying alive. And then Bobbi wouldn't even give him the time of day? That's…" He trails off, fingers tracing random patterns across Phil's skin. "Anyway, she helped me skip town afterwards. She found me in California later on. She said she'd taken care of the people who killed Barney, and that she was out."

A slight chuckle goes through Clint. "Not quite so, I guess. She left when Lorin was just a few months old."

"I'm sorry to drag you back into this world," Phil says.

"You didn't drag me anywhere. I go where I want to go," Clint says stubbornly, before adding, "but I'm not thrilled about the idea of you taking on any missions of that sort. I mean, I know I can't stop you, don't get me wrong. It's just--it's gonna be tough enough being on opposite sides of the country from you most of the time, and I know you travel a lot, but I have to draw the line somewhere."

"Those kind of missions aren't standard," Phil says and thinks of Nick's determined face. Clint lets out a puff of breath, almost like a relieved sigh, at Phil's words. Lifting his head and looking up Clint's face, his slight grin, Phil's heart skips a beat. "You could," he says cautiously, "you could stay with me?" Clint blinks and just looks at Phil for a long time. "I have an apartment," Phil explains. "There's room for you two? I mean, if you want to?"

For a moment, Phil thinks Clint is going to say yes, because he gets a dopey smile on his face and a warm look in his eyes, but then Clint sighs deeply and says, "No." When Phil frowns at him, Clint lifts a hand to stroke the skin of Phil's arm. "If it was just me, believe me, in a heartbeat! But I don't want to drag Lorin all over, you know? It was tough enough getting him here on such short notice--seriously, Stark is a _menace_ when he wants to be--and I'm not saying we might not get there eventually, but... I know your job, and I know what it's done to us before, and it's just… Too fast. You understand what I'm saying?"

Phil's slightly hurt, but at the same time he can't help but feel admiration for Clint, and he remembers the vague hints of insecurity he'd seen in Clint that day at Pacific Park, when he'd complimented Clint's parenting skills. He feels infinitely grateful that Clint's willing to take a chance on him.

"I understand," Phil tells him, and tries to convey that he really, truly _does_.

"We have a lot of shit to talk about," Clint says, a little apologetically.

Phil nods, because he knows they do. "I think we're off to a good start though," he says, hoping that his grin comes off teasing and not creepy.

Clint laughs and kisses him firmly on the lips again. "I know this might be tough," he says, and Phil knows they're both thinking about New York and California and all the miles between them, "but I think we can make it work. And I think Lorin's gonna be really happy to see you again."

Phil laces their fingers together. "I'll stock up on the Icelandic fruit bars," he says solemnly, and is extraordinarily pleased when he's rewarded with more of Clint's laughter.

Yeah. There's a lot of trust issues and lies to get past, but Phil is fortunate enough he's found someone who's willing to work on all that with him.

*

When Phil comes into the office the next morning to meet with Stark and Nick, Stark takes one look at his face and then practically _beams_ as he holds up a hand, clearly waiting for Pepper to high-five him. She merely rolls her eyes and doesn't indulge him.

"Come on," Stark begs. "Come on, Pep! That's a fucked out happyface if I ever saw one, okay? I deserve a high five here."

Phil says nothing, because there's really no point in denying the ridiculous grin he knows he's got on his face. Instead, he just sits down at the conference table and looks at Nick, who's rubbing his temples with both hands, like he has a particularly severe migraine building.

"Director Fury," Phil says happily. "Shall we begin our meeting?"

Nick glares daggers at him.

"I'm taking my fucking chair back," he says bluntly.

Phil just smiles and thinks that's a fair trade.

END

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains discussion of the past, offscreen death of a canon, minor character.
> 
> One scene depicts Phil and Clint intervening in a domestic dispute involving Original Characters, with the attempted kidnapping of an infant, and mild child endangerment.
> 
> There are several scenes that feature heavy invasions of a main character's privacy.
> 
> Unsafe sex; the use of condoms is never discussed.
> 
> Several scenes also have R-rated movie type violence.
> 
> *
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/nerdwegian) & [Tumblr](http://nerdwegian.tumblr.com).
> 
> *
> 
> Bobbi will return if I don't procrastinate away the sequel forever.


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